


How The World Fell Under Darkness

by dovingbird



Category: The Protomen
Genre: Act II Expansion, Angst, F/M, Gen, Insanity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-09 22:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dovingbird/pseuds/dovingbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s clear how their partnership ended, Tom and Wily’s. It’s clear how Emily’s life was snuffed out. But how did it all come to pass? How long was fate at work? This novel-length fanfic starts before "The Good Doctor" and will finish during "Here Comes The Arm."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think we can all agree that The Protomen are masters of music. Their songs are glorious. The stories they tell in them are fantastic.
> 
> What they're NOT strong on...is characterization. And that happens to be my biggest focus as a writer. Thus, I seek to expand the story in Act II: The Father of Death to make our attachment to the characters a little stronger, a little more real.
> 
> And also to make Emily Stanton more than just some little girl that gets fridged within fifteen minutes. That too.

_"I'll have to see the facility, you understand."_

_"Of course."_  
  
It was unfortunate, really, that Tom _did_ have to go see this factory, because it would have suited him so much better to stay in his lab among the swinging dim lights, the whitewashed walls, the absolute and irrevocable silence. He sometimes wondered if he was allergic to his fellow humans. But scientific grants came with stipulations, with a guarantee that those who forked over the money were actually going to get something substantial for their troubles, and that meant he needed to take all the notes he could before he even _thought_ about beginning.  
  
"We have the...rather unfortunate pleasure of having most of the factory injuries made in the entire city," his tour guide for the day, the foreman of the operation, was murmuring, and Tom forced himself to focus on the man, as uncomfortable as the occasional eye contact made him. "Is that why you're here?"  
  
"Mm." Tom nodded. They turned a corner, and he could hear the mechanical systems growing louder, could see the movement of shadows just beyond the frosted windows at the end of the hallway. "God willing, I'll put an end to it all."  
  
"Is that your hypothesis?"  
  
"Not exactly." He adjusted his glasses. "I posit that I could reduce injuries by half and casualties by three-quarters, if I can make the equipment...more efficient."  
  
They reached the door, and the foreman touched the thick metal bar serving as a doorknob before he hesitated. He met Tom's eyes for a long moment. "If you don't mind me asking, Dr. Light...how exactly do you propose to do that?"  
  
Tom broke the eye contact and cleared his throat. "That would...still be in development, I'm afraid. I'm under contract not to say any more than that."  
  
The foreman nodded. "Duly noted. Shall we?"  
  
"Please, lead on."  
  
He had ideas. Oh, he had _plenty_ of ideas. But it was his unfortunate tendency to form ideas that wouldn't be even remotely profitable. It didn't matter that his proposal was shaped around upgrading and replacing the factory machines, because what he saw before his mind's eye when he sucked on a pencap and stared at the walls was something beyond that, something bigger, something out in the mountains...  
  
This was a busy mining city, filled to the brim with old farming families who'd transitioned to the hills when the ground became infertile. The majority of the income came from the ore in the mountains, from the countless men that gave their lives to take the last of what was accessible that was quickly running out. Studies suggested that there was more to be found just a little further down, but the fatalities that would be risked just to reach it...an entire city generation could be wiped out in months. But it didn't matter that Tom's doctoral work lent itself to artificial intelligence, that he could recommend they supplement the workforce with machines shaped like men, because the mere concept of machines to that extreme was laughable in a city like this. Thus, the safety of his first grant proposal. The simplicity. The agonizing voice quietly reminding him every night that he could do so much more.  
  
The door opened, and he was suddenly bathed in the smell of dirt and sweat as he stepped out onto the metal platform overlooking the machinery and workers. The room stretched out before him in horrid lighting spotted with swirling dust, and he self-consciously touched the white of his lab coat for only a moment before he realized something: over three-quarters of the workers in the room were women. Women working in close proximity with dangerous machines, with slender and small limbs that made them have to stretch and strain far further than their male counterparts, with the occasional tendril of long hair hanging from their ponytails and buns that came frighteningly close to machines that threatened to rip the hairs right out of their scalps.  
  
All self-consciousness evaporated. A fit of energy began to take its place.  
  
"How do you plan to make the most of your grant money?" the foreman asked.  
  
Tom hummed in thought for a moment, trying to focus on the present, on the question, not his overwhelming desire to ask a woman to step just a little further away from the machinery before her sleeve got caught, please. "Difficult to say," he murmured. "Part of the stipulation is that I partner with another doctor of similar field to speed the research and to cut the amount of work I will need to do in half."  
  
"Does that happen a lot?"  
  
"Not at all. I haven't worked with another doctor since I was still in graduate school." He ran a hand over his scratchy beard as his eyes lasered in on a clunky, inefficient machine arm that appeared to be necessary to the production process. He could already see a way to shave it down to half its size, to make it far less dangerous to work with. "It was a request that I couldn't argue with, however. I received his credentials and a packet of his own research work only minutes before I had to leave to come here today."  
  
"You ever meet him before?"  
  
One didn't have to meet Dr. Albert Wily to know who he was. His surname alone made heads turn. The name was synonymous with wealth, with old money, with classy cocktail parties at the mansion on the hill that echoed into the night on particularly warm nights when the air was electrified with conductivity. But in the past five years, the name called to mind new words: tragedy, disappointment, hope turned to dismay. The last Tom had heard, the mansion had been transformed into a museum, yet another attempt at drawing tourists in for a little extra income. "Not scholastically. He's a recent doctoral graduate who attended my same university."  
  
The foreman chuckled. "Small world, isn't it?"  
  
"Not as small as one thinks. This city is...very hard to get out of." He'd never spoken truer words in his life. The city had a consciousness of its own. It was so big, so sprawling, so poor, that once someone was rooted in it, breaking out was nigh on impossible. It took more courage and more resources than most people were willing to sacrifice. The graveyards themselves were testament to that, the countless headstones with the same family name stretching across miles of hard, nubby ground outside the city gates.  
  
But if one could not get out, then one needed to make the present situation more bearable. The fact that open space for graves was quickly vanishing proved that irrefutably.  
  
There was a quiet confrontation happening far down the line, Tom noticed, and he squinted to try to see better. No doing. All he could see was three people ducking down close to each other, their work being completed sloppily and haphazardly. "Sir?"  
  
"Mmm?" The foreman blinked at him.  
  
Tom nodded down the line. "There seems to be a very...energetic discussion going on down there."  
  
The foreman was quiet, squinting just the same.  
  
Tom took a few steps closer and touched the railing as he leaned forward. As the figures became clearer, he saw that the two tall, bulky ones were male, and the smaller one female. “Shouldn't something be done about it?” he murmured. “It only takes a moment of distraction before...before...”  
  
The foreman cleared his throat. "Conversation happens, Dr. Light. As long as they can still get their work done..."  
  
One of the men slithered his free hand down and grabbed hold of the woman's rear end, and she twitched away from him, though she didn't seem to chastise him. One might think it was some peculiar form of flirtation, but Tom observed that the look on her face was dissatisfied, perhaps even angry. Then why didn't she say anything? "I think I might respectfully disagree with you," Tom murmured. "That's more than a little conversation."  
  
The other man touched the woman's shoulder, and she shook his grip off with one quick thrash of her shoulder. The men weren't smiling anymore. And Tom began to move toward the stairs.  
  
"Now, Dr. Light, don't you be getting in the way of-"  
  
He spun around and frowned at the foreman. "That woman is being accosted by your workers. Aren't you going to do something?"  
  
The foreman still hesitated. He didn't look uncertain. If anything, he looked a little angry. But anger wasn't enough. There needed to be action behind it. Light turned to the staircase again to move down it, to put a stop to what was going on right before his eyes, but a flash of red caught his eye and he froze in the middle of the stairs when a sharp voice suddenly broke through the factory noise. "Don't you _assholes_ have anything better to do than try to stick your dicks in-"  
  
"Emily!" the foreman shouted.  
  
 _Emily_. He tensed, his breath catching in his throat. It couldn't...but it...no. Yes. It was her. She was older. She had premature wrinkles. Her hands were worn and calloused. But God, it was her.  
  
The foreman shoved past Tom as he flew down the staircase and was at the red-headed woman's - _Emily's_ \- side in an instant. He began to speak softly, heatedly, and Tom finished his descent quietly, changing his path so he could cross behind them. Sometimes, he thought, it was nice to be unremarkable. "...and I tell you," the man was whispering, "if you weren't the best damn worker I've had here in thirty years, I'd fire you right here and now."  
  
There was something familiar in the way she smirked, quirked a brow. "Sorry, boss."  
  
"'Sorry, boss,'" the supervisor murmured, but not mockingly. No, if anything, he just sounded tired. He shook his head as he made his way further down the line and lifted his voice again, waving his hands at the two men who'd molested the woman beside...beside Emily. "End of the line, gentlemen! Go on! Your break is over!"  
  
Tom looked around, watching for eyes on him, before he peered through the thin space between the two women's arms. For a flash, just a split second, Emily reached out her hand and grasped the girl's fingers. She didn't hesitate a second before squeezing back. And then they took flight again, grabbing parts, fitting them together, moving so fast that their hands were a blur.  
  
"Thanks," the first woman whispered.  
  
Emily chuckled. The mere sound made Tom's heart skip a beat. "Those assholes had it coming."  
  
 _"Don't you assholes have something better to do than harass every kid with glasses?!"_  
  
Her hands were scarred. Her hands were calloused. They were fascinating. Tom took a slow step or two forward, watching them.  
  
 _"Go fuck each other in the locker room or something. You sure as hell compare dick size enough."_  
  
He tilted his head to the side as he slid his glasses a little farther up the bridge of his nose.  
  
 _"Jesus Christ. Those dicks never know when to quit. You okay, kid?"_  
  
Kid. He'd been eighteen. Her a freshman. And yet _he'd_ been the kid. He exhaled slowly as he lifted his eyes to watch her profile, and his breath caught in his throat when he realized that she was watching him from her peripheral vision.  
  
The corner of her lips quirked up in a small smirk. "Something tells me you're not the kid I'm supposed to be training today."  
  
He wasn't going to blush. He was a man now. Men didn't blush. Tom lifted his chin and blinked. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Your labcoat. Snazzy, but Jesus, you're gonna have to scrub that thing hard to get any of the dust stains out." She chuckled as she turned her eyes back down to the parts she was assembling. "Do you always stand around trying to intimidate poor girls in factories? 'Cuz I hate to tell you, but it's not working."  
  
Of course it wasn't. He cleared his throat. "No, I'm, uh...I'm observing."  
  
"Observing factory workers," she murmured dryly.  
  
"Yes. I, um...I-I have an...experiment that I'm going to be conducting-"  
  
"And you need guinea pigs? So you pick an easily replaceable stock?"  
  
It was fascinating how close and yet how far from the mark she could be. He felt his cheeks begin to flush, and he imagined himself being submerged in the Arctic Ocean, where he'd never blush again. "No! No, that's not what I...no, I didn't want to-"  
  
Her laughter made him stumble to a stop. "Chill out, Mr. Scientist. We don't take too much personally in here." She glanced around, and he immediately followed the path of her eyes over every worker, each one seeming to study him now that she'd acknowledged his presence. "You work in a place like this for too long, you start losing your marbles. Gotta stay sane somehow. Some people have family, some people have friends...I have my sarcasm."  
  
He blinked. Mental notes were filed before he was even aware that he was making them. "You...you intentionally antagonize people? For what purpose?"  
  
Her grin came slowly, self-assuredly, so by the time it was covering her face she was practically glowing with amusement. "You out taking a survey, Scientist Man? I guess I'm the lucky recipient."  
  
He nervously ran his hand over his face, his stubble scratching his skin. "W-well, I...I _did_ have some questions that only an employee here could answer. Might you be receptive to that?" He ticked his eyes around the factory as he gulped. "It wouldn't take long. Perhaps...perhaps right after your shift, we could go somewhere to...guarantee anonymity. I haven't eaten any dinner, you see, so we might go and...partake at a restaurant, where-"  
  
"Y'know..." Her voice was soft as she interrupted him, though he could still hear traces of laughter in her voice. "...normally when a guy asks me out on a date...he's a little smoother than that. But you know what? I like a change...and I sure could use a drink." She lifted one of her strong shoulders in a half-shrug. "So what the hell?"  
  
...it worked? It worked?! Tom blinked at her profile rapidly as he tried to understand if he'd heard her correctly.  
  
"My shift ends at eight o' clock. Normally I'd run home and take a shower..." She grunted as she attached a particularly tough part to the end of her machine. "...but if you're willing to put up with my sweat, I guess I can meet you somewhere. Maybe O'Toole's?"  
  
He traced his eyes over the sweat beading on her brow, the slim lines where it had dripped down the dust on her cheeks. No, she was perfectly lovely like this. If she was clean he had a feeling that he wouldn't be able to look her straight on for fear of burning his retinas. "That would be fine."  
  
"Eight-fifteen?"  
  
"Of course. I shall, umm...prepare my questionnaire."  
  
She grinned again. "Go on, then, Scientist Man. I'm not letting you get me fired if you distract me for much longer."  
  
He was distracting. Tom blinked again. "...o-of course." And then he hurried away.  
  
The foreman was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, looking rather amused as well. "Did you find everything you need, Dr. Light?"  
  
He felt a little shell-shocked. He ran a hand through his hair, spreading it every which way. "I...think I might need to return at another time. For closer measurements."  
  
"Do you think you could focus on something other than Miss Stanton when you do?" the foreman asked dryly.  
  
Tom nodded. "Of course." Emily Stanton. She was lovely, lovelier than he'd remembered in the times his mind had wandered to her over the years, but that smile wasn't worth losing every cent of his grant money. "Of course."  
  
"If I may escort you out..."  
  
"Lead on."


	2. Chapter 2

He imagined something a little more glamorous, like slurping down oysters between sips of wine or champagne – he hadn't drank enough of either to know what was supposed to go better with little raw sea creatures – but what he got instead were hamburgers and milkshakes. He'd felt self-conscious at first, wearing his blue button-down and dusty black pants. All it took, however, was Emily walking in with a freshly washed face to distract him. The woman didn't need make-up. All she had to do was remove her work shirt and tie it around her tank-top-clad torso to catch his tongue.  
  
“You all right there, Mr. Scientist Man?” she drawled as she began to tug bobby pins out of her hair, one by one.  
  
Tom conveniently forgot his earlier statute on blushing.  
  
She grinned at him, threading her fingers through her fine strands of red hair to smooth them down. “Y'know, I guess I can't keep calling you that, funny as it is to see you squirm around in your chair. You got a name?”  
  
He brightened. “Thomas.” He watched her eyes closely, looking for recognition, for anything. “Thomas Light.”  
  
Her grin grew sly. “So the question is...do I call you Tommy or Tom?”  
  
She could call him Marion for all he cared, as long as she called him _something_. “Tom?”  
  
“Is that a question?”  
  
“Tom.”  
  
“Tom it is.” Her eyes sparkled as she sipped her milkshake. “So, Tom. You new in town?”  
  
He pictured his insides deflating as all hope dripped out of his body. So much for her remembering him. “No, I, uh...I've lived here all my life, actually.”  
  
“Really?” She quirked an eyebrow. “Me too. Where'd you go to school? Downtown, uptown...?”  
  
“Downtown.”  
  
“Ah, the Jungle.” She grinned again. “Small world. I went there too. When did you graduate?”  
  
“Ten years ago, this May.”  
  
Her eyes widened, but he didn't read that recognition he was craving. “Dude, that means our paths probably crossed once or twice. I must've been a freshman when you were a senior.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
There was a moment of silence where he realized he'd given the wrong acknowledgment if he wanted to stay discreet. Emily squinted, as if she'd just put on some new glasses. “...did we meet before? In school, I mean.”  
  
He looked down at the table and began popping his knuckles. “I, uh...we might have.”  
  
“Might have? No, don't give me that, not when you _know_.” She narrowed her eyes further. “Don't try to be all suave or mysterious or something, Tom. I don't like that kind of bullshit-”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
She waited.  
  
“Yes, we...we met.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “You...may have punched a jock or two in the face when they were tormenting me.”  
  
A long pause...and then she sharply inhaled. “ _You_.”  
  
The tabletop was incredibly interesting.  
  
“You're the one that...”  
  
All the patterns and shapes on it. He couldn't look away.  
  
“You were Number One!”  
  
He jolted his eyes up to meet hers. “Excuse me?”  
  
“You were the first person whose honor I defended!” She was glowing, almost bouncing in her seat. “The first of two hundred and seventy-three.”  
  
His jaw dropped. “You beat up two hundred and seventy-three guys in high school?”  
  
She screwed up her face in thought. “Technically about thirty of those were chicks...”  
  
“But _why?_ ”  
  
Emily chuckled as she nudged a lock of hair away from her eyes. “That...is a secret.”  
  
A secret. She didn't seem capable of keeping secrets. She seemed like the kind of girl who'd sell your secrets to the highest bidder, who peddled in them. At the same time...she had scars. Not just on her hands, presumably from factory work, but on her bicep, and a jagged one just under her clavicle. He traced them for a moment with an observant, scientific eye before he realized that she was staring at him with that sly little smile again. “I'm sorry,” he stammered.  
  
“For what?” she asked softly, still grinning, always always grinning.  
  
“For...for...” For looking at her? For being _caught_ looking at her? He didn't know. He clamped his mouth shut as the waitress picked that moment to deliver their food, to place it in front of them with distracted eyes already turning to her next table, and he took advantage of the diversion by plucking up five french fries and eating them in quick succession.  
  
He realized Emily wasn't touching her food. When he chanced a look at her, he realized she was watching him. No, _studying_ him. He paused in mid-chew and wrinkled his eyebrows, and her smile softened. “Tell you what,” she murmured. “I'll tell you a secret or two...if you answer some questions about yourself for me too.”  
  
There are things in the world that are simultaneously the greatest reward and the cruelest torture imaginable. He felt like he'd just stumbled into one of those. “I'm...unfortunately not very interesting.”  
  
“Says you.” She scooted her hand forward, bumped his as he reached for his milkshake, and he felt a giddy buzz run through him that he hadn't felt in years. “Come on. You gonna turn down a pretty girl?”  
  
That was actually genetically impossible for him, he thought. He slowly shook his head.  
  
“Good.” She beamed at him as she swept a french fry through her pile of ketchup, painted the plate's surface with it. “You wanna go first?”  
  
Thirty thousand questions blew past his mind, all screaming at the top of their lungs. Organization was difficult. “N-no, that's all right. You can start.”  
  
She lifted a fist in response.  
  
Tom blinked.  
  
“C'mon,” she coaxed with a smile. “Rock-paper-scissors. Gotta make it fair.”  
  
He stared at her fist for a long moment before he lifted his own and glanced up for her approval. It washed over him like a warm shower.  
  
They played. She squeezed two slender fingers around his flat palm with a cheeky smirk. “I've always been the rock-paper-scissors champ.”  
  
“...it's a game of chance. How could you-”  
  
“Don't question the universe,” she said, waving her hand through the air. “Now then. I guess I should start with a big one.” She munched on another clump of french fries as she thought. “...what the hell were you doing in the factory today?”  
  
The words came before he could think too hard. “Observing.”  
  
Emily narrowed her eyes. “Observing...what?”  
  
“Nono, you already asked your question.” Her widening eyes made him smile. “You need to be a little more specific, Emily.”  
  
“Son of a bitch!” And then she was laughing, tossing her head back to really let it fly. “All right, all right, I guess that's fair. Damn.”  
  
He liked hearing her laugh. He ducked his head to hide how his smile was growing, trying to busy himself with picking sesame seeds off of his bun.  
  
“Fine. Your turn, then, smartypants.”  
  
He glanced up, his glasses drooping around his nose so half of her was blurry and the other half in focus. “You say the reason you went after those two hundred and seventy-three people is a secret. Am I allowed to find it out now?”  
  
She chuckled. “Y'know, I _could_ just say 'yes' and move on, like _some_ people would...but I'm a nice girl. So.” For the first time she was the one to break the eye contact. She let her eyes wander across the room, let them hover on a television broadcasting the news. “I felt like I needed to. Nobody else was doing any good in that piece-of-shit school, so why not me? I had fists, I had a sense of justice, and I had _way_ too much energy that I had to get rid of. So I became...sort of a superhero, I guess.” Her eyes sparkled. “I always liked thinking of myself that way.”  
  
The toning of her arms, the callouses on her knuckles, even the way she was holding her fists as she propped her chin up on them, told him she was telling him the truth. This was a girl who knew how to fight, strange as it was to imagine. It emanated from every part of her. “Your parents must have loved that.”  
  
And then her eyes shot downward, closing herself off to him with her eyelids. “They probably would've.”  
  
Something inside of him sank. He wrinkled his brow as he leaned forward a little. “I'm...sorry, did something happen to them?”  
  
Silence. Then a smile and a brief moment of eye contact. “You already asked your question. Tommy Boy.”  
  
A game of questions didn't seem important when he was trying to figure out if she was okay or not, but at the same time he was painfully aware that he'd do her no good even if she _was_ hurting. He weakly smiled back.  
  
“What are you observing that involves poor, defenseless factory girls?” she asked, quirking a brow. “Are you doing a study on their lack of inhibitions around quiet, adorable nerds?”  
  
It took a moment for her words to sink in, for his cheeks to go up in flames. “I, uh...”  
  
“ _Shy_ quiet adorable nerds,” she amended.  
  
Tom chuckled. “It's...it's nothing like that.” How he managed to keep from asking if she meant it, if she really thought he was adorable, he had no idea. “I'm doing some research. I want to see if I can cut down on factory injuries and casualties by replacing and upgrading some of the machinery.” The words flowed easier now that his thoughts were getting diverted away from her dark blue eyes. “The thought process is that if I can add a little artificial intelligence to the machines, they can do the majority of the most dangerous work themselves.”  
  
Emily narrowed her eyes slowly. “How many lay-offs are you predicting?”  
  
“Oh, not many. Maybe ten, fifteen percent.”  
  
“So ten to fifteen percent of these workers will suddenly find themselves out of a job and down on their luck.”  
  
He was reminded suddenly about tact and how important it was. “Well, that's...that's not what I want at all, really-”  
  
“Jobs are hard enough to find around here, you know.”  
  
“No, no, of course, I definitely know that,” he said quickly, holding up his hands. “I just...” He took a moment, trying to find a more graceful way to frame his thoughts. “...if I have to pick between people being gainfully employed and people living to see another day, I will always pick the lives. _Always_. Life is far too short already.”  
  
He expected another argument, but Emily was considering him closely, her lips pursed in thought. And then she slowly began to nod. “I guess you're right. There's a lot of people in this city who'd kill to bring the people they love back.”  
  
“Ironic, isn't it?” he murmured.  
  
She fiddled with her hair for a long moment before she pushed her plate away and sat back. “My parents died when I was a kid. I still don't know exactly what happened. Mom got sick, Dad got shot...dunno if he was just being mugged, or if a deal to get my mom some meds went bad. Either way, I was eight when Dad died. Mom died about a month later...” The light in her eyes had gone out. He recognized that look all too well, that look of being transported back into the past, watching everything happen for the billionth time right before your eyes, right where you couldn't do anything to stop it yet again. Rehashing everything you did wrong, what you could have done right. The urge to reach across the table and take her hand to shake her out of it was overwhelming, but he kept himself tethered. “...anyway, the streets'll toughen you up,” she said with a little smile as she sucked herself back into the present day.  
  
He really shouldn't have been surprised. “You were on the streets from the time you were eight?”  
  
“Eight to thirteen,” she replied. “Got in the back door with a pretty rough gang. Their leader was a chick with a soft spot for kids. Basically had her own little zoo of us tykes 'cuz she couldn't turn any of us away. We all grew up hitting each other, fighting for laughs, waving around knives, strutting around and talking about how we didn't need nobody, but sometimes things change, you know? You see your best friend get raped and stabbed in the gut right before your eyes, and you figure maybe you can't handle that much life all on your own that soon.”  
  
The words were pouring out of her at an alarming rate. Somehow Tom had the feeling that she'd had them trapped inside for far too long. “I'm sorry.”  
  
“Eh, don't be.” She shrugged. “Made me who I am today. Anyway, it got me off the street, didn't it? I found me an orphanage, the same kind we'd been running from every day of our lives. Got me a foster family and some hardcore homeschooling. The next year, I was in the Jungle.”  
  
“Where you defended my honor,” he murmured with a small smile.  
  
“Guilty as charged.” She slurped the last bit of her milkshake out of the glass before she tucked her arms behind her neck. “Gotta have something to do when the roaring gets too loud.”  
  
He'd never heard that exact phrase, but it rattled him how quickly he related to it. He remembered the feeling of sitting alone on his bed, curled up in a ball, covering his ears, trying to cut out the roar of silence that his father used to fill. He cleared his throat. “My father...died when I was young as well.”  
  
Her eyes widened for a moment, and then she relaxed again. “...then you understand.”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“How did he die?” she asked, tilting her head.  
  
“The mines. He worked those mines until the day they took his life.” He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he spoke. “I was ten. My mother had to go work in the factories for fifteen, eighteen hour shifts, just to support the two of us. The bus never ran to my side of the neighborhood, so I often ended up at the library in the computer room, where a well-meaning young librarian turned me onto the art of programming and accidentally enabled my obsession.”  
  
Emily smiled, snorting out a soft sound of amusement.  
  
“During the weekends when my mother would be working, I'd stay at home and tinker. Break machines apart. Put them back together. Always hiding the extra parts.” He chuckled as he slid his glasses back on. “The poor woman nearly killed me about once a week when she realized this, that, or the other was no longer working. There was no point in throwing off the blame. Who could I put it on? The rats?” He laughed again, but quieter. “But those rare days off that she had, we'd be inseparable. She'd listen as I rambled on about everything I was learning in school, everything I dreamed of doing one day...encouraged me every step of the way. She's the whole reason I didn't end up in those mines myself, I think. She made me realize that there was something better, that it wasn't...peculiar to want to learn everything I could get my hands on. And now...here I am.”  
  
Emily was quiet. “Is she proud of you?”  
  
“Very,” he whispered with a nod. “I had a full ride through each year of college and graduate school. I worked nights on top of my classes. Saved up every penny I had. And then I moved her out of the city, out to the country about two hundred miles south, where she could have a little farm like she'd always dreamed of. Best money I'd ever spent in my life.”  
  
There was a long moment of silence before Tom met Emily's eyes and saw how wide they were, how they seemed just a little more damp than they'd been before. And then she beamed at him. “Any other man, I'd think that was all a line to get the girl's sympathy so she'd go home with him after dinner.” His cheeks flushed redder than they ever had in his life. “But something tells me...that if you even tried to lie, you'd fumble your whole way through it. And I've never seen a guy more scared of a pretty girl in my life.” She chuckled with a shake of her head. “Wow, Tom. You're something else. I didn't think they still made men like you.”  
  
He cleared his throat and looked away, his fingers unconsciously floating down to tug at the neck of his shirt a little. “Yes, well...you can thank my mother for that, I suppose.”  
  
She looked at her watch and softly sighed. “Hey, look, I've got the third graveyard shift in about five hours, and I'm shit if I don't get my beauty rest...but I'd really like to see you again.”  
  
His jaw dropped as he snapped his eyes up to meet hers. “Really?”  
  
She covered her mouth to stifle a laugh, but the wrinkles that sprouted around her eyes couldn't hide her smile. “Yeah, really.”  
  
He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to say. He barely even remembered how to breathe. “...o-okay.”  
  
“Okay?”  
  
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Umm...what about tomorrow night?”  
  
“Working.” She smiled. “Sunday afternoon. Let's get lunch. Are you free?”  
  
Was he free? He didn't have a damn clue, but he was going to be free, goddammit. “Definitely.”  
  
She slid out of the booth with a quiet, happy sigh. “Walk me out to my car?”  
  
He'd walk her to the moon if she wanted. “Of course.”


	3. Chapter 3

Wily dressed with care each day of his life. Every outfit was a persona, every piece of clothing a shard of his personality. When he went out to do research, back in the days of university when one could literally drown in the amount of books its library held, he would wear a pair of fake glasses to get him in the right mindset. Working on projects, as he prepared for the days when he'd be an official doctor working in a laboratory for days at a time, he'd wear sharp button-down shirts and crisply ironed pants, something to ooze the professionalism that people constantly expected from someone of his former stature. And nights like this? When he was going out to the casino on the far side of town, the one that had seen far better days? The coat. And the fedora.  
  
The second he slid his coat on, he felt a sense of power wash over him. It was tailored specifically to him, to emphasize the broadness of his shoulders and to sweep ever so slightly behind him like a cloak when he walked. It made him imposing, but not frighteningly so. Enough to catch an eye before he opted to remove it and drape it over the back of his chair, where he could still draw in its power from where it touched his back.  
  
The fedora, however, was his favorite of everything he owned. Whenever it was perched on his head it mutated that feeling of power, sculpted it with slick hands covered in clay. It changed everything. His shirt opened a few buttons at the top. His sleeves folded an inch or two up his forearms. He became aloof. Mysterious. Sensual. Exactly the kind of man who could find life in a dark, dusty place like this, with cards in his hand and chips stacked on the table.  
  
"What about it? You calling or what?"  
  
Wily grinned slowly from beneath that fedora. The shadow it cast over his face obscured all but one thing and one thing only: his mouth full of bright white teeth. He was a shark tonight, ready to clamp his jaws around anything. "You rushing me, Maverick? Not nervous, are you?"  
  
"You're holding up the game, you pussy," the man responded from the corner of his mouth as he chomped on his cigar. "Keep it moving or else."  
  
Wily breathed out a quiet laugh. "Or else? Well. I've always been susceptible to creative threats," he murmured dryly. He collected chips in his hand, feeling their texture beneath his fingers, before tossing them into the pot. "Your hundred, then."  
  
"Call."  
  
"Call."  
  
He glanced up from under the brim of his hat when there was a long moment of hesitation and pinned the young blonde across from him with his eyes. She was tracing her finger along her lower lip slowly, and he took a moment to dissect that, to try to figure out if it was her tell or if she was trying to distract all the gentlemen at the table. When she shifted in her chair she pulled back her shoulders a little, lifting her cleavage into the air. The latter, then. His smile turned into a smirk as he tucked his head down.  
  
When the fingers began to play with the chips, to slide along the ridged edges of them in a slow circle, he watched. Her long fingernails were fascinating.  
  
Maverick huffed. "C'mon, sweetheart-"  
  
"Don't you rush her," Wily interrupted. "It's been a while since I've had someone _competent_ to play against at this table." He glanced up again, was able to see how her red lips pulled into a smile even as she kept her eyes on her cards. "If you drive her off, I'll beat the hell out of you myself."  
  
"God, will you keep your flattery to yourself? You're gonna make me sick, and you ain't even been here an hour," Maverick shot right back at him. But he didn't say another word to the woman.  
  
"...I raise a hundred," the woman finally murmured. She scattered the chips into the pot like a farmer with seed.  
  
Wily could feel Maverick's stress skyrocketing. "...I'm out," he muttered, tossing his cards away.  
  
The woman went back to tracing her chips with those lithe fingers of hers. ...no. She didn't have shit. "I see your hundred, and raise you...a hundred of my own," Wily said.  
  
"Fold."  
  
"Out."  
  
A bit more hesitation. Wily lifted his head just enough to eye her from beneath the brim once more. She was watching him. "What've you got up your sleeve?" she asked softly.  
  
He grinned. "I don't know." And then he flicked the brim of his fedora up with one finger, just enough to cast light on his face. There was something absolutely magnificent in the way awareness came across her entire face, awareness followed by shock and awe. "You want to find out?"  
  
She exhaled quietly, but she couldn't hide the slight shakiness of it. Her lips moved, formed the first syllable of his name silently. And then she sat back in her chair, her cheeks lighting up in a blush.  
  
The Wily name could be exhausting. But moments like this made it worthwhile.  
  
"...maybe not," she finally murmured. She tossed her cards onto the table. "I'm out."  
  
He ducked his head in a little bow, never once breaking eye contact with her. As he began to gather the chips from the pot, he realized she was doing the same thing with her own. Maverick sat a little taller when he suddenly spoke. "Aw, don't let him drive you off. He ain't so different from us."  
  
Wily just barely held back the urge to punch Maverick in the jaw for that little sentence.  
  
"Sorry, boys," she said with a smile. "Afraid I have...business elsewhere. But it was a pleasure." And then she was gone.  
  
Wily watched her surreptitiously as she weaved her way through the tables, heading straight for the door of the lounge. Huh. It'd been a while since he'd literally scared someone off.  
  
"Fucking Wily," Maverick muttered. "Hate it when you do that."  
  
"You'll get over it," Wily said, no hint of hesitation. "Deal me out as well."  
  
"Are you kidding me?! We need your money, you prick!"  
  
This time Wily met Maverick's eyes, arching his eyebrows in a hint of warning. "You'll. Get. Over it." He gathered everything together, mentally calculating his profit for the evening. He settled for a descriptive 'enough.' "Besides. You'll have to get used to getting by without my money. I won't be back for a time."  
  
Maverick snorted. "Uh, not that I won't be happy to get your ugly mug outta here, but what're you talking about?"  
  
"My affairs have never been any of your business," he murmured. "They're not going to be so now."  
  
In hindsight, it probably shouldn't be so embarrassing to admit that he was entering the working world for the first time tomorrow. He had his first invitation to partner with another doctor – he assumed rather cynically that all the board of directors wanted was to draw some press to the story, hence why they called in a doctor who hadn't had the title for more than a fortnight – with the work finally beginning the next day. Most people would be proud of this. They'd talk it up to everybody who would listen, basking in their fascination and approval. But not Albert Wily. The Wily family didn't work. The Wily family lived on old money, on investments. They sat around getting shitfaced on expensive brandy, reading their classic literature, throwing their crystal snifters when the other person in the room so much as twitched out of place. And then they crashed their cars over embankments, died, and left their son to cover up the story, to make it look a little more dignified.  
  
He happily released the actual story under an anonymous source after the reading of the will, of course.  
  
"Gentlemen," he said, dipping his head as he shrugged his coat on and jerked his shoulders to let it fall straight and even. He had bigger fish to fry now.  
  
By the time he made it to the lounge, new crisp cash filling his wallet, it was beginning to empty out. Mine workers mostly populated this place, and their shifts started obscenely early, early enough that not even the dulling effects of alcohol could compensate for a lack of sleep. They stumbled away for forty winks or so around this time and left the rest of them, people like him and the blonde woman sitting near the end of the bar counter, to entertain themselves.  
  
He considered her back as he crossed the room. She wore a similar coat to him, different in that it was light brown and fell all the way to the floor, but its effect on her was dramatically different. She seemed more vulnerable. There was something telling in the drooping of her shoulders, the way her hair rested tiredly against the collar, how the waist it hugged was ridiculously slim. Her dress had a corset tying at the front, he recalled that much from the table, but the slenderness he could see from here wasn't a simple product of that. He would call it malnutrition, if forced. And yet there was something proud in her bearing. Almost sophisticated, if he tilted his head and squinted.   
  
Interesting.  
  
She was drinking down the last of her wine when he reached her, was lifting the glass to the bartender for another. When Wily tossed a few bills onto the counter, enough to pay for the vintage two or three times over, she glanced first at the money and then up at him. Her cheeks flushed once more as she looked away. "It's silly for you to pay for my drink with the money that was mine five minutes ago, you know," she said softly, a hand immediately lifting to coax a few locks away from her forehead.  
  
"I've always been fond of irony," he replied with a smile. He touched the chair beside her. "May I?"  
  
Hesitation. Then a nod.  
  
He perched. He ordered a brandy. When it arrived he studied the snifter, took in the utter imperfection of it all, before taking a sip. "It seemed only fair after I drove you off." Fire coated his entire esophagus. He relished it. "You would've had me beat in that hand."  
  
Her eyes widened. "You were bluffing?"  
  
"Well, I mean, it wasn't _worthless_ , necessarily," he drawled. "You can do a hell of a lot with a pair of threes in this world."  
  
The woman groaned as she pressed her hands against her face. "God, I had a _straight_. Are you kidding me?"  
  
He shrugged. He had a long history of pruning egos and stealing like a bandit at the poker table. "My fault, really. I didn't know my last hand would do you in, so to speak."  
  
She chuckled and shook her head, lifting the glass and beginning to swirl it. "Playing poker with Albert Wily. It's something you dream about, not something that actually happens." Her tongue was loose already. He began calculating how many glasses of wine she'd had. "Ended up being a little more intimidating than I thought."  
  
"Ah, but it shouldn't be. Wasn't it Maverick at the table that pointed out how...similar I am to everyone here?"  
  
"Yes, well, your friend seems to be the definition of idiot scum, so forgive me if I don't go by what he says."  
  
He felt a strange little swell inside of him. It was so rare that he felt it that it took a long moment before he identified it as what it was: appreciation. He genuinely liked the woman, at least a little. He smothered it before it could grow any further. “You're a wise woman,” he said with a nod. “Shall I guess your name? Athena?”  
  
She smiled again, though she kept her eyes on the counter. “Cecilia.”  
  
“Lovely,” he said quietly. “I was starting to worry that this city was full of Berthas and Donnas, but Cecilia...that's a name that speaks of elegance.”  
  
“My parents think so,” she said with a touch of amusement in her tone. “They can barely read and write, but God, they knew what to name their kids.”  
  
Wily quirked a brow. “You have siblings? Tell me.”  
  
She counted down on her fingers. “Brutus, Catherine, Gabriel, Lydia, and Homer.”  
  
Wily hummed a soft sound of appreciation. “If one calculated classiness by names, I think your family would be top of the list.”  
  
“I don't know.” She finally looked at him again, even though it was just a little glance from the corner of her eye. “Albert's rather sophisticated.”  
  
“Yes.” He offered her a companionable smile, one that ushered her into an intimate fold. “But my middle name happens to be Bill, and I'm afraid that cancels it out.”  
  
A small smile of her own began to grow. “William?”  
  
“Mm-mm.” He shook his head. “ _Bill_.” As she laughed he took another sip of his brandy, smirking. “I never quite forgave them for that.”  
  
“I'm not surprised.” There was a little moment of silence as the woman turned on her stool to considered his profile. He held himself perfectly straight, like a man posing for a portrait. He'd come to realize over the years that letting a woman drink her fill without him doing the same loosened her up. There was an obligatory span of time, somewhere between four and nine seconds, that she needed before he could turn to look, to meet her eyes, lest she feel intimidated and shy and break the contact before it even happened. “...do you come here often?” Seven seconds between the beginning of her stare and the end of her words. He looked. She held his gaze firmly as her lips pulled into a smile. “I know that's supposed to be _your_ line, but-”  
  
“Oh, my lines are far better,” he drawled with a little wave of his hand. “But...yes. Yes, I suppose I do.” He lifted one of his shoulders in a half-shrug. “Everyone needs a little escape, don't they? A little game of chance to distract them. I find mine here.”  
  
“At the poker table or the lounge?”  
  
“The table, of course.” Another sip. “I rarely come _here_ , actually. I have my own drinks at home.”  
  
She narrowed her eyes with a shrewd little grin. “And yet you're here now.”  
  
“Mm.” He leaned forward, gently touched his glass to hers with a clink. “I had someone worth my time to come after tonight, didn't I?”  
  
Her cheeks began to flush. “...that was one of those lines, wasn't it?”  
  
He chuckled. “Of course not. My lines are smoother than that. That one was clunky. Poor sentence structure and all.”  
  
She laughed too, but she dipped her head, breaking the eye contact for the first time in a minute. Wily felt something inside of him start to buzz. She was coming over to his side gradually, whether she realized it or not. He was holding out a tempting hand and she had already taken it, was letting him lead her around a corner even though she had no idea what was there. Giving up inhibitions. Giving up safety.  
  
Giving up control.  
  
“Last call, folks,” the bartender said to them. “Gotta get the place shut down and ready for tomorrow.”  
  
Wily waved his hand. “Nothing for me. You?” he asked the woman. Her name was already filed somewhere in the distant recesses of his mind, where he never rooted unless he had to.  
  
“No, that's all right.” She drank down the last of her wine and slid the glass to the bartender. There was a moment of silence as the bartender took their glasses and walked away to wash them in his sink, and then she met Wily's eyes again. “I know...you just said you were finished, but...I happen to have a lovely bottle of brandy upstairs in my room.”  
  
In her room. One of the few hotel rooms this place still rented out. He let his eyes wander over her face, trying to figure out if she was a traveler passing through town or just a woman trying on a fantasy for the evening with a little spare cash. When it came right down to it, it didn't matter, really. Not when she was inviting him up. “I never said I was finished,” he murmured.  
  
There were only five floors in this building, but she took him to the elevator regardless. They rode up in silence, standing far too close to each other. He reached his hand out an inch and gently brushed her fingers, felt a shiver rise up her body, felt an internal smirk form somewhere beneath his skin.  
  
As they emerged from the elevator and he followed her down the hallway, over fraying carpet and creaky floors, he did a little calculating. He'd been downstairs with her for an obscenely short period of time. A conquest of this speed was ridiculous, even for him. No, something about this woman was desperate. She didn't seem frightening or creepy enough to be a fan of his name, per se, though he supposed she could always be looking for an excuse to steal her money out of his wallet when he was looking the other way. At the same time, this wasn't something he could turn away.  
  
She let him into her room. He'd been here before. He recognized the slight indentation of one of the walls, the fingernail scratches on the headboard, the stain on the bedspread. There was an overnight bag on the chest of drawers, and an outfit already laid out for the next day beside it. Lovely attire, but definitely not traveling clothes. A blue, sleeveless dress and a sheer blue-and-green scarf draped elegantly on top of it.  
  
The woman slid past him and slipped her hand into the bag, where she did indeed pull out a bottle of brandy. It was half-empty. He wondered how much of it she drank alone and how much with a partner. She was searching for something else in the bag, probably a glass, and Wily touched her wrist. She froze. “We're not here for the brandy, are we?” he murmured. He planned the timbre and the flow of his voice carefully so that it came out as a genuine question, a ball in her court, not a threat or an insinuation. Simplicity at its best.  
  
She looked up and met his eyes. The bottle clinked against the chest of drawers. When she turned to face him she let her eyes wander over him, taking in the breadth of his shoulders, the trimness of his hips, the strength of his chest and legs. It was the wine, he thought, that made her reach out and touch a hand to his waist. But he welcomed it. He stepped closer, let her take her fill, invited her to take more.  
  
She was the one who cupped his cheeks in her hands, who leaned in so quickly that he didn't realize her plan until he'd twitched back an inch, just enough for her to miss the kiss, and wrinkled his brow. They stared at each other for a moment before Wily registered the confusion on her face, the hesitation, and felt the slightest thrum of panic. Movement. He had to have movement, distraction, or he'd lose this conquest, and God knew it was far too late for him to nab another one.  
  
The instant his lips ran a path down her neck she arched, let out the most exquisite sound of vulnerability, and wrapped her arms around him. She was desperate to touch him, he noticed, and though he wasn't exactly sure why he wasn't going to pass up an opportunity like this. Desperation for free was rare these days. Women in this city would throw themselves at a man for a fee, for however much it took to feed their kids while their husbands were away in the mines, but this? A beautiful woman giving herself away for nothing, even to someone like him? Almost unheard of.  
  
He slipped the coat off her shoulders and let it pool around her feet. He could almost hear his mother screaming at him, telling him in no uncertain terms how long it would take to get wrinkles out of that fabric – suede, he thought – and he grabbed her specter and slammed her face into a metaphorical table. She shut her mouth this time. Wily was free to return to the woman in front of him, to deftly undo the laces keeping the front of her dress closed.  
  
He didn't touch her at first, not when he slid the dress down until it joined her coat, not when she tugged at the collar of his own, but when she went after a kiss yet again he'd had enough of her efforts. He wrapped his arms around her as he sank down to his knees, nibbling from her collarbone to her navel, listening to her gasp at the feel of his sleeves dragging down her smooth back. Feeling her legs turn into jello with every moment of attention he paid her.  
  
He cupped his hand around her hip and gave a squeeze as he bit back a groan.  
  
She was naked before him before he'd even removed a stitch of his own clothing. Wet and glistening before his eyes. He breathed out a sharp sigh as he lifted his gaze and met her own. He saw what she wanted, what she was begging for. That was the exact reason he didn't give it to her. Simply rose to his feet, took hold of her hips, and guided her to lay back on the bed.  
  
She was far too slender. Her ribs poked through her skin. Tiny scars stretched across her stomach, barely noticeable until they shone silver in the dull lamplight. He took this in, all of it, as his busy fingers coaxed his coat off, unbuttoned his shirt. But it was the way she lay there, bare, uncovered, her eyes never leaving his own, that had his blood burning. She'd given him every bit of control that she could. But there was still more that he could take.  
  
The creaky air conditioner kicked on and bathed his skin in ice just as he reached out and took that sheer scarf into his hands. Fine material. Nearly as fine as his shirt, draped over the chair behind him where it wouldn't take in a single wrinkle. He slowly wrapped it around his palm without saying a word before drawing it through his other hand, listening to the quiet brush of the material as it tickled his skin. He gave it a snap, pulling it taut, and restrained a smile when he watched her lick her lips, her eyes glued to his hands.  
  
His approach was careful. Every step was planned precisely, so that by the time he was climbing onto the bed on his knees she was breathing harder, her pale skin beginning to flush. She turned to face him, and he snapped out a quiet “Stay.” She did. His eyes followed the graceful curve of her spine as he hovered behind her. When he took her wrists, coaxed them to cross at the small of her back, she didn't fight him. She even leaned back a little, as if longing for the feel of his skin against hers. Far too easy to deny her. He drew back a few centimeters, just enough to leave her wanting. And then he wrapped the scarf around her wrists.  
  
The knot was easy. He'd mastered dozens of them over the years, and this one was a particular favorite. Firm. Unyielding. He left just a tiny bit of tension, enough for her to keep the blood circulating through her hands, before giving a soft, experimental tug, one that had her jerking back toward him with a gasp. Then and only then, with her back to him, her eyes straight ahead, did he allow himself the pleasure of a true smile.  
  
He leaned forward and let his breath brush against her shoulder, listened to the way she quietly moaned. There was a tiny movement of struggle, just the once, but the second he tugged at the scarf again she froze, gave up the ghost just like he'd hoped she would.  
  
He pulled the scarf until she was flush against him, the shock of their skin-on-skin contact rippling through him like a tidal wave. He pressed his chest against her bare spine as he twisted his head to breathe into her ear. "What do you want, sweetheart?" he purred, eyelids growing heavy and hooded.  
  
The woman tilted her head back with a little cry, the back of her neck resting against his shoulder. She arched her back, pressed herself against him, made him suck in a sharp rush of air before putting that space between them again, just enough to make her whimper from still feeling his heat resonate through the millimeter separating them. "I..."  
  
He slid his other hand over her hipbone and squeezed, squeezed until she gasped again, until he could _feel_ her skin turning purple like he held magic in his fingers. "Mmm?"  
  
There was a little choked sound, a murmur of joint desperation and shame. "I want...please..."  
  
He breathed out a soft chuckle, flicking his eyes down to take in the sloping arch of her neck, all that warm flesh that was his for the taking. "C'mon, darling." He brushed his nose against her pulse and felt it flutter. "Beg for me. Or you get nothing."  
  
"I can't," she whispered.  
  
He pulled at the scarf again, tightening it until her fingers would turn blue. "You _can't_ , eh? Well, that's different. See, I thought maybe you _wanted_ this." He brought his hips forward, fought to keep his head for just a few minutes more when he felt the beginnings of wetness trying to suck all conscious thought from his mind. "Wanted me. Inside of you."  
  
She sounded like she was about to cry out. He sucked in the sound, fed on it.  
  
As he touched his lips to the shell of her ear, she pressed back toward him, her reaching fingers brushing against his stomach for a brief moment. "But if you _can't_...then I'll just have to leave you alone." And he began to pull away.  
  
"No!" she suddenly cried. It was the loudest she'd been in his presence thus far. He froze, listening, feeling his grin grow and grow until it consumed his face. "...please..."  
  
"Yeah?" he whispered.  
  
Her fingers curled into fists. "...fuck me."  
  
He deigned to comply.


	4. Chapter 4

It was too early, Tom thought, as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose, trying to coax away the hangover that Emily had teased him into the night before. Glasses of wine kept ending up in front of him at the restaurant, one after the other, and he swore he could remember her laughing, saying that if he didn't finish it she would. And so he'd finished them. And now he was in a laboratory under bright, halogen lights with the glass of his spectacles magnifying the vibrance of the glow perfectly. Good. Best plan. Best plan ever.  
  
It was a sign of how nervous he was, though, that he'd woken up as early as he had, forty-five minutes before his alarm was set to go off. He'd taken the longest, coldest shower he had in his entire life and gulped down a few cups of black coffee before he'd gone ahead and left for the laboratory, eager to check out the facilities he'd be sharing with a partner for the next year, at the least.  
  
Partner. That still felt strange to him. He tugged at his sleeve, trying to make it the length it was supposed to be instead of the only size shirt that was available at the local thrift store. He wondered what the elusive Albert Wily would think of it, if he'd laugh Tom out of the building. Maybe it was a bad plan. Maybe he should have just stuck with his t-shirts and blazers, like he had all through grad scho-  
  
The door swung open and Tom turned, pressing himself back against the desk he'd been leaning on. The man that entered with an armful of books looked young, far younger than the recent pictures of him in the newspapers showed. Dark hair, bordering on black, slicked back with gel. A crisp button-down. Ironed pants. Smart shoes that clicked away. And thick, dark circles under his eyes, ones that had Tom's mind racing in an instant.  
  
How far the Wilys had fallen.  
  
Wily set the books down on the desk on the other side of the room before looking up and meeting Tom's eyes, and Tom looked away immediately. It was instinct. It took him a second to realize how silly and unprofessional it was – as if he was a student still, not a scientist ready to take on high honors – and he breathed in a deep, fortifying breath before looking up once again.  
  
Wily tilted his head to the side, leaning his hip against the desk. “Thomas Light?”  
  
Tom nodded. “Albert Wily?”  
  
“The very same.” He glanced down as he flipped open a thick binder and began skimming the pages. “You clear on what we've been commissioned to do?”  
  
Commissioned. Like they were artists instead of men of science. Tom sort of liked that idea. “Reinforce the factory workforce with robotic assistance in order to reduce human injuries and casualties.”  
  
“Mmm.” Wily touched his hair, slid a tiny tuft that was trying to escape the ironclad hold out of his eyes. “So we're doing this the way I expect, aren't we?”  
  
Tom cleared his throat. He wasn't sure how to respond to that. “...what way would that be?”  
  
Wily set the binder aside and flipped open a sketchpad next, the enormous sheets covered in tiny light blue squares. “I do the body. You do the mind.”  
  
Wily's file spun open in Tom's mind, every word but a few bullets blurred and illegible. The man had the bulk of his experience in the actual design of machines, in forming their exteriors. He recalled an article detailing the man's doctoral work that first began to get him attention, how these bodies were instinctual to him, how he could solve just about any electrical or circuital problem with a quick glance. “I suppose you would prefer it that way.”  
  
A quiet scoff. It made Tom's muscles tighten as he tried to figure out how he'd already screwed up this encounter. “Sure. We can do that.”  
  
“Do you want to do it differently?”  
  
Sharp pencils came out next. Wily examined them, one right after the other, as if testing their separate weights in his palms. There was a long moment of silence, and then he quietly exhaled through his nose. “I won't do this if all I'm going to be's a glorified mechanic.”  
  
Tom wrinkled his brow. “We have equal shares of the grant money. That means we pull equal shares of the work, doesn't it?”  
  
Wily glanced up just for a second before he began sketching in tight, contained lines. “Do you actually know anything about robotic exteriors? I read you were an artificial intelligence expert.”  
  
Tom wandered around the table as Wily spoke. He studied the sketch closely as it began to come into being in just a few shapes. To most it would be a mess, a mere hint of what might eventually emerge from chaos, but things were already starting to merge before his eyes. “...you studied Grenadine's Journal of Modern Robotics, volume seventeen, somewhere between Saturday, when it was released, and now.”  
  
The pencil slowed.  
  
“Specifically the article regarding the advances in elbow joint construction for experimental man-based machines carrying upwards of three hundred pounds.”  
  
Wily met his eyes. “It decreases the strain on the conduits, thus letting both them and the joints last twice as long without replacement.”  
  
Another silence. When Wily didn't speak again, Tom reached for his glasses on impulse, began to clean them against his shirt. “Those joints...have no place in a factory machine that needs to lift at least a quarter of a ton.”  
  
A slow smile began to spread across Wily's face. “You noticed.”  
  
“I did.” He rubbed the pinch across the bridge of his nose, trying to wipe away the marks he was self-consciously aware of. “Do you...want to tell me what you have on your mind?”  
  
Tom got the feeling that he was being studied, considered, watched like an experiment, and he was so unused to being looked at, really looked at, that he felt his skin begin to buzz in a strange combination of discomfort and pleasure. The discomfort won out, and he snapped his eyes away just as Wily opened his mouth. “Reinforcing the factory workforce, making it more efficient, that's all well and good...but maybe that's thinking too small.”  
  
A thrum of excitement. Tom's eyes widened. “Mm?”  
  
“Maybe there's...a wider supply that we can replace.”  
  
This city was built on two things: factories and mines. It only took a moment before Tom began rubbing his hand over his beard, his eyes picking apart the distance. “...you can't take away their livelihood.”  
  
“Whose?”  
  
“The mine workers.”  
  
Wily leaned forward, pressing his hands into the desk. “No, but you see, we wouldn't be doing that. We'd be saving them from a...a lifetime of pain and torment. And the mines, the companies that own them, do you know how much money we'd save them from having to pay not only those salaries, but the workman's compensation, the hospital bills, the insurance and funeral costs, all of that?”  
  
Numbers flew through Tom's mind in a second, numbers that painted his dreams. “Thirty-seven percent of the city's population work in those mines,” he murmured.  
  
“At least five percent are killed each year,” Wily added. “And the budget for the training classes for the new workers is going down constantly, so that number is bound to rise. I wouldn't be surprised if it'd be as much as-”  
  
“Eight percent this year.” Tom looked up, met Wily's eyes, and shook his head. “But it's...it's not enough. Even if we somehow created an efficient machine to do the men's jobs for them, any money the companies saved would have to be put toward constant maintenance.”  
  
“Not necessarily,” Wily pressed. He flipped a page or two back in his sketchbook and presented Tom with a complete blueprint of a man-based machine, one of his fingers tracing along the thickest lines. “It's only a matter of materials. If we construct them out of something solid, like steel-”  
  
“Steel doesn't have the flexibility required for such a small scale,” Tom murmured, furrowing his eyebrows.  
  
Wily shook his head, cutting his hand through the air. “Never mind that. You leave the flexibility to me.” And back to tracing. “Regarding the materials we use, if we construct them out of something solid enough, they'll be more than able to hold up in the mineshafts themselves, regardless of cave-ins, falling rocks, et cetera.”  
  
“But the men they'll have to hire to do the inevitable repairs, the system checks, the-”  
  
“Light.” Wily's soft, firm statement of his name made him shut his mouth, made him meet his eyes all over again. “You sell yourself short.” And then he grinned, his mouth wide like a lion. “I've seen some of your work. You could create a program that would allow them to scan themselves, fix anything wrong, fix each other.”  
  
Tom exhaled sharply. “It'd be too much.”  
  
“If we've been using it on our computers for however many decades, then why couldn't we put it in these machines?”  
  
“Because those machines would be three hundred times more complicated!” He dragged his hands through his hair, running numbers in his head, just thinking about the thousands upon thousands of lines of suffocating code bearing down on him. “Anything could go wrong. Anything. They might decide that a vital part of their programming is a virus and destroy it.”  
  
Wily shook his head. “Not if you do it right.”  
  
Tom breathed out a quiet chuckle. “Dr. Wily, I'm not that good.”  
  
“Not yet.” Another grin. “Give it a month or two.”  
  
His entire body was suddenly buzzing with energy. Tom began pacing, his hands stuffing themselves into his pockets. God, they felt empty. They wanted to be typing suddenly, pressing into a keyboard for hours on end, writing an entire consciousness out of nothing. A hot pain localized itself right in the center of his palms like a brand. “Even if...if it was possible,” he found himself murmuring, “what would you propose we do with the mine workers? Force them all into an early retirement? Eighty percent of them aren't even qualified for a pension.”  
  
“No.” Wily was on his feet too, leaning back against the desk and watching Tom as he paced. “Every one of those workers would continue to draw a partial salary until they reach retirement age, unless they opted to pursue employment elsewhere.”  
  
Tom shook his head. “They'd never do that. The companies would never do it.”  
  
“...you'd be surprised where the hearts of those C.E.O.s are,” Wily murmured.  
  
It was ridiculous. It was madness. And yet was it so wrong to picture such perfection, to imagine the steps that one could take toward it? Even if it wasn't something that Tom could accomplish in his lifetime, he realized suddenly that he could be responsible for giving his great-grandson a chance at having a father until the man died at a ripe old age of natural causes. No more tragedy. No more men dying of lung cancer from inhaling the ore dust. No more empty caskets at funerals from bodies trapped too deep in a cave-in to be recovered safely. None of that.  
  
He ran his hands over his face, knocking his glasses askew. He left them there. “It's insanity. But maybe...maybe not impossible.”  
  
Wily grinned.  
  
~~  
  
"You're working with _who?_ "  
  
Tom chuckled as he took the plate Emily was offering him. "Are those stars I see in your eyes?"  
  
She breathed out a laugh of her own. "Why? You jealous?"  
  
She still couldn't read Tom's expressions, not yet, but the way his grin spread told her she probably hadn't made a mistake. "You want me to get you an autograph?"  
  
"Tom-"  
  
"Maybe a date?"  
  
She reached out. "I'm taking the cake back."  
  
Tom turned, twisted around so she would've had to scramble into his lap just to get the plate. She weighed the risks of frying his brain with the benefits of having her way.  
  
"Fine." She settled for sticking her tongue out and wandering to the kitchen nook of her studio apartment. She'd get her _own_ cake.  
  
Silence besides the sound of Tom clicking his fork against his plate. "You know, for someone who says they're a terrible cook, this is pretty fantastic."  
  
"This is a rarity, trust me," she said dryly. "I burn water."  
  
"I think that might be impossible with your current equipment. You see, the highest possible temperature your stove can reach-"  
  
"Tom." She dropped her voice to a murmur, glanced through her mascara-painted lashes to watch the way he sat just a little straighter. His eyes were widening behind his lenses. "You've already impressed me. Remember?" She set her own plate on the wobbly end table and perched on the couch arm beside him. Watched how he scooted just a hair away even as he blushed. "Third date and all that."  
  
He cleared his throat. "Well, you know, sometimes I just have-"  
  
"A lot of feelings?" Emily teased with a smirk.  
  
He shrugged, gave a smile she thought might be boyish under his beard, and before she knew it she was reaching over to twist a lock of his hair around her finger. She gave a little tug, and he caught his breath.  
  
"Any other day I'll be more than happy to listen to your thoughts and feelings," she murmured. She flicked her eyes down. "But right now...I want you to kiss me."  
  
His lips parted and she heard another little gasp. "Right now?"  
  
Her smirk widened. "You've kissed a girl before, right?"  
  
"Never one like you."  
  
"What am I like?" she asked, tilting her head to the side.  
  
"You're...you're like a firecracker. A stick of dynamite." As Tom spoke she lifted her eyes to meet his own. "You take everyone by surprise every single day. You're not how you seem, you're...you're _incredible_."  
  
Emily shook her head, feeling the strange dueling sensation of pleasure and sickness in her stomach. "I already told you you don't need to impress me, Science Boy."  
  
"I'm not _trying_ to impress you," he pressed, his deep voice rumbling with desperation. It was like she'd opened a floodgate, that he'd been wanting to say this for ages now. He reached out suddenly and set his plate beside him, took her hand and squeezed it. "You are unlike any woman I've ever known. You're not only worth my time, but you're...you're worth my attention. My focus. You're worth taking time away from work when all I should be doing is laying down groundwork. And you're worth a lot more than that." He reached up and hesitated before he touched her cheek, and Emily felt that burst of pleasure overwhelm any sickness she'd been feeling as it radiated down her spine. "I may have only known you for a few weeks. But I want the opportunity to learn everything I can about you, Emily. If you think I'm worth it too."  
  
She didn't have the heart to tell him he put far too much stock in her. That he was seeing a princess where there was nothing but a grease monkey. Because right now, deep inside of her, his words were echoing, playing over and over again, bouncing around until they were amplified a million times in her mind, and all she could feel was the slow, steady buzzing that broke out over every inch of her skin.  
  
Tom jolted his hand away when she suddenly twisted to throw a leg over him. And with a knee pressed into the couch on either side of his hips, with a hand touching both walls beside his cheeks, she dipped her head and she kissed him like she'd never kissed a man in her life.


	5. Chapter 5

“What are you doing?”  
  
Tom glanced up from his notebook. “...I'm drafting the rewrite of the grant proposal.”  
  
Wily's eyes grew huge as plates. “Are you _high?_ ” The words alone made Tom smile as he went back to writing. “Light, I sent for the first shipment of parts _yesterday_. We don't need to rewrite anything!”  
  
He blinked. “Our proposal was for replacing the factory machines. _That's_ what we got the money for. You don't think the board's going to be just a little bit dismayed when they see our results regarding the replacement of _mine workers?_ ”  
  
Wily rolled his eyes as he set down his briefcase and began to root through it. “I took care of that.”  
  
“...you took care of that.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“How in God's name did you take care of that?”  
  
“I just did.” Wily shrugged. “Don't make a fuss.”  
  
Tom rubbed at his forehead, trying to see the possible scene in his head. “Dr. Wily, we're supposed to be equal partners in this. Remember? We're supposed to _discuss_ things, to reach a mutually beneficial conclusion after a great deal of thought. You didn't think you might want to include me in these plans?”  
  
Wily tossed down his book of blueprints with a slap. “We both have our strengths, Light. Mine just happen to include the Wily family name.”  
  
Tom heard himself grumbling senselessly before he was even aware that he was doing it. “Yes, yes, of course, the Wily family name, how could I forget.” And then he sighed. “How did you manage it, then? How did the meeting go?”  
  
“We can discuss that later.” He cleared his throat and flipped the sketchbook open to a marked page. “First, business. Now, I slimmed down the chassis to eliminate bulk, but I'm afraid it'll strain the wiring, make it too easy for something to get tangled or crossed. What do you think?”  
  
Tom poked his glasses a little farther up his nose as he leaned over to consider. He was lost in the design discussion before even a minute passed by.  
  
~~  
  
"It's not much, you know, but it's a place."  
  
It didn't matter how casual Tom was trying to seem. Even if Emily was blind, couldn't see the way he was shifting from one foot to the next, she would be able to hear the overlaying anxiety in his voice. She made herself look around long and hard, knowing Tom would hear an empty compliment in a second, before she slowly began to smile. "It's nice."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"You sound surprised." Emily looked over her shoulder as she slid her jacket off. It didn't matter that Tom took a second or two too long to run over and grab her jacket from her, not when he was only delayed from the way he'd soaked up the sight of her bare shoulders and arms. He'd seen them before. But never like this. "You don't like your place?"  
  
"N-no, that's not it, I..." He was tracing the shape of her with his wide eyes. Her grin turned mischievous. When he finally looked back up, met her gaze, his cheeks flamed under his beard. "I'm sorry."  
  
"For what? Looking or getting caught looking?"  
  
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly as he hurried toward his coat closet. "I don't even know. I-I've just...never seen you like this."  
  
Emily looked down, spread her fingers flat against the flowered material. She owned one dress, it was true. One. Not because she was a tomboy or because she looked down on feminine women, but because they were so damn expensive compared to the tank tops and jeans she could pick up for dirt cheap. But here it was, the sundress, the one she'd had for years, ever since she wore it to her high school graduation. It fit a little more snugly in the bust and the rear, maybe, but Tom didn't seem to mind that. Nor did he seem to notice how the colors had faded until they were a little dingier, or how part of the hem was a little awkwardly stitched from how she'd redone it when it began to fray. No, all he saw was her.  
  
Tom leaned back against his closet door after he hung up her jacket and looked at her again, just a sweep of his eyes that struck her as oddly gentlemanly compared to some of the leers she'd gotten over the years. "You're...Jesus, Emily, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."  
  
She chuckled even as she swept her hair over one shoulder. "I doubt that, but-"  
  
"No. No, don't...don't you dare say that." He shook his head. "Not when I'm telling you the truth." He began taking these slow steps toward her, and it struck her right then and there that he had no idea just how handsome he was. How sparkling his eyes were or how full his lips were or how his shoulders were so broad they made his leanness look planned. When he walked toward her like that, this determination in his eyes, all he was doing was making her heart skip a beat and her cheeks flush. "Do you realize that you're everything I ever wanted in a woman?"  
  
Her eyes softened. "Tom..."  
  
"That when I spent a night dreaming up the perfect woman for me, she didn't even come close to you?"  
  
She looked down, trying to contain her smile, trying not to grin like a middle schooler, but that was impossible. So was looking away. When the tips of his shoes crept into view, scuffed and dirty, she snapped her eyes back up to his.  
  
"You defy description. You always have." He chuckled and shook his head in wonder. "Even when you were a fourteen-year-old superhero punching out random boys just because you could, you were so beautiful it took my breath away. Do you know how weird that was?"  
  
She laughed. "Was it?"  
  
"I was eighteen years old. And I thought a freshman was bordering on flawless. Yeah, it was a problem."  
  
"Careful, Tom," she murmured with a smirk. "I'll start thinking you've been obsessed with me ever since then, and that might be a teensy bit creepy."  
  
He shook his head again. "Not obsessed. Just aware that if I ever met you again, that if you were anything like you were that one day...I'd just about trip over myself to ask you out."  
  
He was standing directly in front of her now, rising over her with that ridiculous amount of height that he had, and Emily reached up, touched a hand to his chest through his t-shirt. "You know what, Tom?" she murmured.  
  
"Mmm?"  
  
"I'm gonna do something I didn't even know I was waiting for." She wrapped her fingers around his collar, felt the ribbing of it between her fingers. "I'm going to ask you something."  
  
He looked both nervous and excited. It made her smile. "What's that?"  
  
"Will you be my boyfriend?"  
  
His eyes widened again. And then he started laughing. "I'm twenty-eight years old. Do the terms boyfriend and girlfriend still apply to people our age? Good God."  
  
Before she knew it Emily was laughing too. "I don't even know."  
  
"I-I mean, look, I've been considering us exclusive for _months_ now. Somewhere around like date fifteen, you know?"  
  
It was stupid but she was suddenly a little flustered now. She leaned forward and buried her face in his chest, muffling her laughs in the fabric. "Oh my God."  
  
But Tom just wrapped his arms around her, touched a hand to the back of her head to cradle it, to make her feel more protected than she'd ever felt in her life even as he laughed with her. They stood there and they laughed and they basked in their embrace for some ridiculous amount of time. And then Tom began to smooth her hair in slow, comforting strokes. "I will, though."  
  
"Will what?"  
  
"Be your boyfriend."  
  
She closed her eyes. Happiness like this wasn't supposed to exist. Not with her. She couldn't help but think that God had fucked up somewhere, accidentally switched her happiness allotment with somebody else, somebody far better than her.  
  
"...I think it might be only fair to tell you, though, that your new boyfriend is about to get ridiculously busy."  
  
She blinked, tilting her head so she could look up at him. "Why's that?"  
  
He shrugged. "The project's about to kick into high gear. Wily, he pulled some strings or something in regards to our change of plans-"  
  
"Pulled some strings?" she asked. She furrowed her eyebrows.  
  
Tom chuckled. "Yes. He...apparently went and got the board to go ahead and approve it. I'm honestly not sure on the details. I forgot to ask."  
  
She blinked rapidly. Looked away. "...dude."  
  
"I know, right?"  
  
"How'd he even manage it?"  
  
"I seriously don't know. He just...came in today and told me he got it approved. That he already ordered the first shipment of parts to come in."  
  
Emily stared at him again. "You spent our whole last few dates just working on that damn grant proposal revision!"  
  
"You're telling me!" Tom laughed again. "All for naught, apparently. Wily's got it under control."  
  
She stepped away, beginning to pace. "It's not like he could've just paid them off, right? Like, it's true what everybody heard?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"The newspapers? About the will?"  
  
Tom nodded in understanding. "I think so." He paused. "I haven't asked about it. It seems like it might be...an awkward situation."  
  
"'Aw shit, man, your parents didn't give a fuck about you, so they didn't leave you a damn thing when they died'?"  
  
He patted her like she was a child, and Emily jerked away. "I've always admired that tact of yours, Emily. Remind me never to leave you and Wily alone in a room together."  
  
"And why not?"  
  
"Because not only will you ask him to sign fifty autographs, probably to sell to hapless bystanders, but you'll drill him with all sorts of questions he doesn't need to hear."  
  
"Well, come on!" She spread her arms. "You're not the least bit curious how an only child like that doesn't see a dime of his parents' inheritance and fortune?"  
  
"I'm curious. I'll concede that." He frowned at her. "But there are some things you just...don't bring up. Especially to people you barely know."  
  
Emily waved her hand dismissively. "How else are you supposed to get to know them?"  
  
"Emily."  
  
She whirled around to face him. "I just want to know how a man without a damn penny to his name, barely a graduate student, can get an entire board of directors to do what he wants them to in the span of a fucking coffee break." She stared. "And why you don't seem to give a shit."  
  
Tom approached her again, but this time he was purposeful. He touched her arms and sent that little frisson of delight ghosting along her skin. "He's a good man. That's why. A good man who got dealt a bad hand." He lifted his eyebrows. "As far as I'm concerned, all that matters is that he got them to change it in the first place. And that the supplies are on the way. Now the work can begin." He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "I've spent my whole life waiting for this, Emily," he breathed, his words brushing along her skin. "Waiting for the chance to give another man a few more years. To make sure another son'll never have to bury his father." He paused. "To make sure I'll never lose you either. Not to some freak accident. Not to something that could've been avoided if we'd only done this a little sooner."  
  
"You're not going to lose me to an accident," she murmured. She was softening under his kiss, his touch. She always did. "I'm smarter than that. I keep my eyes open."  
  
"Regardless..." He sighed. "Just _please_ do me a favor, my new girlfriend. And be more careful than you think you need to be."  
  
She chose her words carefully, now that a few seeds were planted somewhere deep inside of her mind, watered by this whole conversation. "I'll only do what I have to do. Nothing else."  
  
"Good."  
  
Emily wrapped her arms around his slim body and tilted her head back again, her chin touching his chest. "I guess now's a bad time to tell you that I plan to seduce the hell out of you tonight."  
  
His eyes grew as huge as plates. "What?"  
  
She shrugged. "Well, since you're my boyfriend now, that means I can suck your cock without being a slut, right? 'Cuz I've kind of been wanting to do that for the past ten dates or so."  
  
At first Tom's expression didn't change. And then Emily realized it was because somewhere behind those enormous glasses of his, something in his brain had fizzled and gone out. Suddenly this blush descended straight from his forehead, over his cheeks, down his neck, and she had a feeling it was going a hell of a lot farther than she could currently see.  
  
Emily bit the tip of her tongue with a slow smile. "You haven't shown me your bedroom yet."  
  
He didn't look like he even remembered where his bedroom was.  
  
"I think we can find it." She laced her fingers with his and began to walk backward, her eyes never leaving his own.  
  
~~  
  
He abandoned the brandy tonight. Abandoned the wine too, after he traced his fingers over the bottles available to him. Abandoned it all. All he was left with was his own company and a manila folder filled to the brim with papers.  
  
Wily stared at it from across the room, leaning back against his deck, dressed in his shirtsleeves, his vest, and his pants. He drummed his sockfeet against the floor. He did whatever he could to avoid approaching it, because _this..._ this was dirty. This was something that Wilys didn't deal in.  
  
Then again, Wilys also left their only son with nothing to his name. Got lost in their books. Forgot they even had some kind of spawn in the first place. So maybe Wilys dealt in filthier things than he ever thought possible.  
  
He exhaled audibly through his flared nostrils before pushing away from the desk and striding forward. He opened the folder and let the photocopies spread out before him. This was big. Bigger than the last time. It turned out that running across the Chairman of the Board of Directors that oversaw your operation, your recent project, coming out of a hotel room with a well-known prostitute could sometimes do some good for you. Especially if you seized the opportunity. Let that man know precisely what you saw. Let him know that you saw his wife at countless hobnob functions for the rich and famous. And let him know just how loose a little wine could make your tongue.  
  
An affair could rush a proposal, even when the necessary revisions weren't present. What could records of money laundering do?  
  
Wily hopped up, perched on the edge of the table like a child, and raked his fingers through his hair, shoving it into further disarray. He narrowed his eyes. He suspected he needed glasses, but he couldn't afford to wear something like that, not when they had such a strong connection to weakness in so many minds. He'd leave the glasses to Light. He'd leave them to the man that most of the Board thought of as the brains of this operation. If he had to be the muscle, just for a time, just until things worked out, then he'd do it.   
  
This man, the one funneling all of this stolen money through those foreign banks, he didn't have a hand in the Board of Directors, not in the slightest. He was the father of one of his old school chums. He'd never met the man. But when his friend had let this slip at the last function he'd been at, however many months ago, when he'd drank just a dram too much of whiskey and briefly developed a conscience, Wily had been curious. And then, once he'd dipped his fingers in, he'd been insatiable. He couldn't put his energy into going to the casino anymore, into seducing strange women and fleecing strangers with each passing hand, not when work demanded so much of his attention. He had to have an outlet, or he'd lose his mind. He'd lay awake every night, counting the cracks in the ceiling of his apartment, trying to figure out when the most recent one had developed. He'd climb out of bed at sunrise, not having slept a wink. If he didn't have a distraction, a release, he'd never sleep again, and he was _useless_ like that. He couldn't stand being useless. And so here he was. Righting wrongs, so to speak.  
  
Righting them in his favor, perhaps, but righting them nonetheless.  
  
He wondered what this man was going to give him. What he was going to provide him with. He slid off of the table and gathered together the photocopies of his evidence, flipping through them as he wandered back to his desk. Leaned forward against it with a tilted head. Glanced up toward his fax machine.  
  
He scribbled on the bottom of the top page and dialed in a number and fed the papers through, pursing his lips in concentration. And then he plucked up a paperweight. It was in the shape of an angel, hands lifted to the sky in supplication. It was the only gift his mother had ever given him – a high school graduation gift. He turned it over and over in his hands, studying it, absorbing it from every angle. And then he heard a beeping.  
  
He glanced up. Watched a paper feed right back through. Hastily scrawled words covered an entire page. _'What can I give you?'_  
  
Wily smiled.


	6. Chapter 6

The sizzling probably should've been his first clue to remove his hand, but Tom wasn't anything if not determined, and thus it took a spark and a flash of pain to make him pull back his hand with a whispered “Shit!”  
  
Wily glanced up from his computer with a wrinkled brow. “What's the matter?”  
  
Tom shook out his hand, even popped his finger into his mouth to suck away the pain. “I can't get these wires to lay right,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.  
  
The desk chair scooted back with a squeak as Wily wandered over, already folding the sleeves of his button-down shirt up to his elbows. “What's the problem? They were fine earlier.”  
  
His cheeks turned red in shame. Tom scooted away a few inches and gestured vaguely. “I was trying to install the new processor, the one that's supposed to overheat less, but it's more of a rhombus than a rectangle.” Wily glanced at him with a quirked brow, and Tom kept waving his hand, trying to draw his partner's attention back to the processor. “Won't fit properly in the space we had before without disturbing the wire placement.”  
  
Wily squatted down beside him and narrowed his eyes, leaning in. “Your problem's not the processor.”  
  
“It's not?”  
  
“Uh-uh.” He reached in, and Tom tensed and even shot out his hand to be ready to grab Wily's, to pull it back before he could get electrocuted, but there was no need. Wily easily wrangled the wires, pulled them to the side like a doctor doing a diagnostic through sensitive organs, and hovered his finger right above a frayed live wire. “Look, first of all, we need a stronger coating on these. They're burning straight through them.”  
  
Tom tilted his head to the side, trying to see a little better. “Jesus, you're right.”  
  
“I think once all the systems are running together it will more or less fix the problem, lessen the strain because of the paths leading to the cooling vents, but...” He pursed his lips in thought. “We're going to have to replace all the wiring. That'll take ages.”  
  
“So it will.” Tom sighed. “Should we order the wires pre-made?”  
  
Wily fingered along the brittle, melting coating. “I might be able to rig up something here. It'd be cheaper to order the coating material and shape it myself.”  
  
He already did so much. Tom stared at him. “You've done that before?”  
  
“I've done everything before,” Wily murmured with a little smirk. “What, you think little rich kids don't get bored too?”  
  
Trying to imagine this man as a precocious child taking apart machines and putting them back together wasn't actually as hard as it probably should have been. He wondered how many times he'd been yelled at for inventing something new through the parts of, say, the coffeemaker and the dishwasher, something incredibly interesting but less convenient. “How long will that take, though?”  
  
“...a little longer, maybe. But you need the time to learn how to handle these damn things anyway.” Wily pulled the wires back a little further. “Take out the processor.”  
  
His finger started throbbing as if on cue. “Maybe that's something you'd better do.”  
  
Wily huffed. “Don't be scared. Geez, Light. You've probably done something like that a hundred times.”  
  
It didn't matter. He didn't want Wily to see him screw up something so simple. “Look, I just-”  
  
“Get your hand in here.” Wily jerked his head toward the opening. “Go on. You're wasting time I could be using to write out our system specifications.”  
  
Tom pressed his lips together firmly. And then he tentatively lifted a hand, began to slide it through the wires. This time he was infinitely aware of each melted coating, each exposed wire, and he moved his fingers carefully to bypass them. It reminded him of an old childhood game he used to play, one that made him think he'd originally be a surgeon instead of a scientist, except the consequences to this seemed a little more dangerous. The second he touched the processor he brushed his hand against Wily's and twitched, almost sending both of their hands straight into a minefield. “Sorry,” he muttered.  
  
“For the love of...” And then Wily sighed and shook his head. “It's just one little thing, Light. It isn't that complicated, I promise.”  
  
His cheeks were flaming all over again. “I just-”  
  
“Lift your hand a little higher.”  
  
“The wires, though-”  
  
“Would you just trust me for once?” Wily leaned closer and arched his fingers to what looked like a painful angle, shifting the wires further. “You need to remove the processor at a forty-five degree angle, or you'll risk getting it caught, and we sure as hell can't afford to replace _that_. Go on.”  
  
Tom bit the tip of his tongue in concentration. He lifted. As he began to pull the little piece of machinery out, he could swear that his heart stopped, that he couldn't breathe.  
  
“That's it,” Wily whispered.  
  
Centimeter by centimeter. Don't breathe. Don't even _think_ about breathing...  
  
“A little further...”  
  
And then it slid free in a rush, and Tom was so tense that the sudden ease of removing it literally made him tip back and fall on his rear end, his eyes wide. He just barely kept his hold on the processor. “Holy...” He exhaled suddenly, sharply, trying to get all that stale oxygen out of his brain before he passed out.  
  
For his part, Wily removed his hands like it was nothing, like he hadn't just almost shocked himself about eighty times over. “Passable work,” he murmured. But when Tom met his eyes he saw he was smiling.  
  
  
~~  
  
  
A shrill sound rang through the air. “Fuck,” Wily whispered, dropping his pen and rubbing at his eyes. “If that's not the take-out, I'm shooting them on sight.”  
  
Light chuckled across the room, that low rumbling that Wily was quickly becoming familiar with as they spent more and more time together these long days and nights. “Shall I get the door, then?”  
  
“Might as well. Deliverymen see _me_ answer the door, and they expect a tip.”  
  
He watched Light roll his eyes as he got up from his computer chair, a little smile on his lips. “I'll give them what they deserve.”  
  
He doubted it. Light was a softie. Wily had a feeling that he'd bend to whoever so much as gave him a glare.  
  
Wily stood and arched his back, grunting when his tailbone popped. All this stooping and slumping was murder on him. It was one thing when he was just doing it for a few weeks, building to supplement his graduate thesis, but they'd been constructing for close to two months now, making constant blueprint revisions every step of the way, and he was starting to fear he'd be a hunchback before he was twenty-six.  
  
Could be worse, he decided. He could have a piece-of-shit partner instead of Thomas Light.  
  
Wily liked to know the people he worked with. If that meant he spent his evenings sipping down tea and reading old newspapers and scientific journals when the insomnia came to life, then so be it. He knew far more about Light than he should: the names of the scholarships he'd won, the universities he'd attended, his father's name. But the present Light was still a bit of a mystery.  
  
He wasn't sure if he liked that.  
  
“Here we are.”  
  
Wily glanced up when Light soared back into the laboratory, arms full of various Chinese take-out containers. “About time,” he murmured, helping to lighten the load. “I thought you might have been kidnapped.”  
  
Light was punch-drunk about the opportunity for a break after eight straight hours of work, or so Wily assumed from that grin. “Concerned about me, Wily? I'm touched.”  
  
“Concerned about my rice is more like it,” he drawled. But Light was still grinning anyway, still had that pop in his step as he set to making some room on his desk, and Wily wondered when they'd gotten past the awkwardness, the time when they would've taken such things personally.  
  
While Light was opening his box, laying out his plastic silverware, Wily hesitated. Considered his options. He finally approached the desk and dragged a chair around to the opposite side. If Light was surprised, he didn't show it.  
  
“Did they give us chopsticks?”  
  
Light blinked. “You use chopsticks?”  
  
Wily didn't mean to roll his eyes, honestly. It just happened. “Yes.” He drew out the word, trying to hold his impatience at bay, and took the chopsticks when they were offered.  
  
They were quiet for a few long moments, simply eating, and Wily glanced up. Light didn't look stiff or awkward, necessarily, no more than usual, but silence around another human being never suited Wily. Not unless it was needed. He twirled a chopstick between his fingers before deciding to roll with possibility and bluffs. “...you look like you have something on your mind.”  
  
Light looked up, eyes wide behind his glasses. There was a bizarre clarity to the older man's eyes, as if the blueness was something more than his irises, something deeper within him. Looking away wasn't an option. “Do I?” For a moment Light looked confused, and Wily prepared to backtrack, to save face, but then Light went on. “I had no idea I was so easy to read.”  
  
Wily shrugged. “Call it a special talent of mine.”  
  
“Mmm.” Light slid his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “Well, I...you've had a great deal of experience with women, haven't you?”  
  
Stone-faced. “A few.”  
  
Light nodded absently and began to tap his fork against his box. “Did you...ever ask one to move in with you?”  
  
Wily felt stunned, even vaguely alarmed, not to have known that Light was carrying on with some girl. He wasn't sure why. He sat back in his chair and chewed the remains of his egg roll. “Why do you ask?”  
  
“No reason,” Light said quickly. Too quickly. Another long silence where Wily stood and crossed to the coffee they'd brewed earlier and poured them both a mug, and by the time he was back Light was watching him. Wily quirked a brow in question. “I just...don't really know how to do it.”  
  
Wily ground his teeth, just the once. “Well. You open your mouth. You then form the-”  
  
“But the _words_ , Wily!” Light stared into his mug, sulking away. “I-I don't know what I'm supposed to _say_.”  
  
In Wily's experience, you flashed a smile and popped a button on your collar and opened your mouth and told the woman whatever she wanted to hear. But as he glanced over Light, taking in the beard, the glasses, the t-shirt, the way he avoided Wily's eyes at almost all times, he thought it wouldn't be quite so simple for him. He breathed in slowly, inaudibly, and took a sip. “How long have you been with her?”  
  
Light considered this. “Our first date was around five months ago. We've...had an understood monogamous commitment for three.”  
  
Wily's eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Is that so?”  
  
Light jerked his eyes up, sitting a little straighter. “Too soon?”  
  
If Wily didn't get a fuck within two hours of meeting a woman he considered it a failure. He traced the handle of his mug.  
  
“I-I just...” Light raked his hand through his hair. “I can't stand the thought of her living that deep in the slums, where she could...”  
  
“...could-”  
  
“Get hurt or something.” He looked at the window with a heavy sigh. “I know what it's like there, you know?”  
  
Wily didn't. He pressed his thumb a little harder into the mug handle, feeling his skin cave in around it, felt his tendon  ache and his skin pinprick. He licked his lips. Let the silence stretch out for a few moments more, to be sure Light was finished. “So you're sleeping with her?”  
  
He'd never seen an almost thirty-year-old man blush like that. He wanted to laugh but managed to hold it back to a small smirk, a bare twitch of his lips. “...d-does that matter?”  
  
Wily shrugged. “Speaks to the level of commitment. Yours specifically, at least, since I know you to be a loyal man. I can't speak for her.” He pushed away from the desk, went to grab a few napkins. “What's her name?”  
  
“Emily Stanton.”  
  
He began the mental filing. “Lovely name.”  
  
“It is, isn't it?” Light was smiling. Wily had his back to the man, but he could still hear that smile. For a moment he tightened his hold on the napkins, watched them crumple between his fingers, and once again he found himself wondering why. Wrinkled his brow as he tried to sort through it all. “She works in the factories.”  
  
Wily looked over his shoulder. “That's why you wanted to supplement the factories with the robots?”  
  
“No, not necessarily. I...I met her the day I went to take the introductory notes, and things sort of...went from there.”  
  
Wily finally made his way back to the desk and took a seat. He stirred his rice together, smearing it with soy sauce. “...three months, you say?” he murmured.  
  
Light nodded.  
  
Another bit of silence. And then Wily shook his head. “It's too soon.” He averted his eyes, stared at the wall as he plucked up a clump of rice. “You don't want to scare her off if she isn't as committed as you are.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“Better to see her every few days-”  
  
“I don't see her at all,” he murmured.  
  
Wily looked back at him.  
  
“I...we're working so hard, Wily. And we haven't even gotten into the real meat of the prototype.” Both men looked at the shell in the corner, its innards still pouring out of it. “Do you know how much work we have ahead of us?”  
  
Not necessarily. But Wily had the odd feeling that Light was looking to him for a direct estimation. That he trusted him with those sort of figures. Wily huffed, exhaled through his nose. “At least six months. Probably more.”  
  
“Fuck,” Light whispered.  
  
“A year at the latest.”  
  
“It'll drive me insane.” Light dragged his fingers through his hair and held his face in his hands. He sighed. “I tell you, Wily, on the nights when it's the most stressful, when it feels like we didn't get anything worthwhile done, the only thing that makes it better is if she comes over. If I can let it all out with her.”  
  
Some of Wily's hair came out of place, escaping the hold he'd put it in with gel. He tossed his head to move it from his eyes, glaring at the strands impatiently. “You know, if...” No, his tone was still a little too sharp. He paused, shaped the tone of voice he wanted in his head, waited until he could clearly hear it. “...if you need to vent, feel free to do it here. With me.” Better. He dug his chopsticks into the box, aiming for a particularly slippery piece of chicken. “I know how it feels, after all. I've been there. Felt it too.”  
  
“It's not the same.”  
  
Wily's chopsticks tore through the box, popping a few pieces of rice through the hole, and he stared at it, wondered at the way he was tensing his forearm. “...flimsy pieces of shit,” he muttered. He tilted the box to make sure no sauce would escape when he tugged his chopsticks out again. “It's too soon, Light,” he said, voice a bit louder this time. “Trust me. It could only end badly.”  
  
Silence. Wily glanced up, tracing his eyes over Light's face and picking apart every emotion that he let show. Innocent. Guileless. He didn't hide a thing. Wily thought he maybe didn't even know how. Light finally pushed his box aside and took a long drink of his coffee, grimacing. And then he sighed. “We should get back to work,” he murmured.  
  
Another person might have checked, seen if his partner was okay. Maybe even apologized for if what he said caused the man any pain. The thought never occurred to Wily.  
  
~~  
  
“What's this?”  
  
Emily glanced over her shoulder. She was finishing buttoning one of Tom's work shirts to hold back the cold, and for the past few moments she'd been preening like a bird just from how closely her lover was watching her. The fact that he could be distracted by anything when she was pulling his wrinkled shirt over her naked body and – oh. That. She smiled. “That's my knife.”  
  
Tom wrinkled his brow as he tilted it this way and that. “You lie.”  
  
“I don't.” She flounced across the room and belly-flopped onto the bed. “I've had it for years.”  
  
“Prove it!”  
  
She didn't hesitate. Just snatched it from his hand and gave a few deft turns of her fingers and wrist until the blade came out with a flick, fast enough that Tom flinched. She grinned up at him. “Still doubt it?”  
  
“Fuck,” he whispered, studying it closely, and she couldn't help but laugh. The fact that she'd loosened his tongue so much over the past few months, enough for him to let that cussing fly like it was nothing, it made her far prouder than it should have. “You weren't kidding.”  
  
“It's been my best friend for years, ever since one of my gang buddies liberated it from a store.” She tilted her head. Thought on Billy, the old gang's right-hand-man, and wondered what the hell he was doing these days. “It was the only thing I trusted with my life.” When Tom met her eyes she knew he heard the subtext there, the emphasis on the 'was,' and his eyes softened behind his glasses. “Kept it by my bed every night I slept. Never know when someone's gonna burst in and try to mug you at three in the morning.”  
  
Tom glanced back at the blade. Held out his hand for Emily to hand it over. He held it like a complete novice, like someone who was afraid he'd drop it and slice his foot in half. She took advantage of the silence to study him, to take in every plane and angle of his face, before he chuckled. “You're going to hit me...but I think this is the girliest thing you own.”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“It's true, though!”  
  
“You've seen my sundress!”  
  
Tom settled on his belly next to her – just close enough to make her regret putting this shirt on when he was still naked as the day he was born, when she could've gotten that intimate jolt of safety just from having their skin pressed against each other – and held up the handle with a quirked brow. “Flowers.”  
  
“There were flowers on my dress too,” she muttered.  
  
“Big sparkly flower stickers. And hearts drawn with a marker.”  
  
She took the knife back as she stuck her tongue out. “My knife handle is my own business, thank you very much.”  
  
He didn't say anything. Just lay there and smiled at her, watching her without blinking. He looped his leg around hers – he always made sure a part of their skin was touching at all times – before sighing. “Do you really have to go to work?”  
  
She pouted out her bottom lip before she even realized she was doing it. “Yes...”  
  
“I don't like it.” He was pouting too.  
  
“That was the deal, remember?” She stood up and began searching for her clothes, fighting against the way her skin was pulling her straight back toward the bed. “I take a longer meal break in exchange for working three hours longer this morning?” Emily pinned him with a playfully accusing glare. “You said an hour and a half with me would be plenty.”  
  
“A lifetime wouldn't be long enough,” he whispered.  
  
Every cell in her body came to life there, right in that moment. Absolutely electrified. She pulled Tom's gaping collar a little further up her shoulder as she stared at him with wide eyes. “...what does that mean?”  
  
Tom nibbled on his bottom lip as he looked away, tented his hands against his mouth. “...nothing. Nothing yet.”  
  
“Yet?”  
  
He sat up with a heavy sigh. “Yet. I'm...I'm thinking, Emily.”  
  
She wanted to fall to her knees in front of him, to beg him to keep thinking, to never fucking stop, but she held herself at bay. She didn't want to overwhelm him. She'd made that promise to herself months ago. She'd go at his pace. No more. No less. She licked her lips and waited, holding her breath, praying to God that he'd go on. But when he didn't she accepted it. Dipped her head in thought for a few seconds before she nodded.  
  
“...you...you need to get back to work, don't you?”  
  
She flashed him a smile, tried to make it look easier than it was. Because he had softened her a little. A few months ago she would've pinned him to the bed, made him talk, tortured him with her kisses and her body until he did, but now? Now she would let it go. Wait for him to make the next move, no matter how long it took. She smoothed a hand over his cheek, felt the transition from soft skin to scratchy beard, and sighed. “Yeah. You too, don't you?”  
  
He glanced away.  
  
She was familiar enough with his habits now to see it for the avoidance it was. She smirked. “You didn't tell Wily where you went, did you?”  
  
“I mean...” He huffed a sigh of his own. “The last time we did that we got so caught up in work that I never made it out. Remember? And I didn't feel like tempting fate again.”  
  
Fate, her ass. She tossed Tom's shirt aside and began pulling her own clothes on. “God, your partner's clingier than _I_ am.”  
  
“He's not clingy.” Tom sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed at his arm, a nervous tick. “And you're not either, for that matter.”  
  
“Bless you for that.” She looked over herself in the mirror, tried to figure out if there was a way to make her hair look just a little less sexed up. “I tell you, Tom, I can't wait until this is all over and done with.”  
  
“So you can be dating a fabulously wealthy man?”  
  
She glanced at him through the mirror. “So I don't have to share you with some prick anymore.”  
  
More arm rubbing. “He's not a prick!”  
  
“He's got one. Close enough.”  
  
“I do too,” Tom murmured, his tone far more loyal than she would have liked, filled with far more warning.  
  
She settled for pulling her hair into a messy high ponytail. “You've got a cock. Big difference.” And that he did. If her hair was still going to look all ruffled, all haphazard, it at least gave her an excuse to brag about his endowments to all her girlfriends while they worked. Might as well make them time go by faster.  
  
Tom came to his feet and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on top of her head, and in that moment she wondered why she felt so jealous in the first place. Why she felt so...suspicious. Part of it was the sheer naivety of the man watching her through the glass, but there was more. There was how much this project had altered since Wily joined Tom at the helm. How quickly it had passed through the board. How every single fucking night Tom was working on this robots, from dawn to midnight and beyond. It didn't seem feasible. Logical. Any of that.  
  
She rubbed Tom's forearm and sank back against him. The warmth of him made her tongue loosen. “I love you.”  
  
His eyes widened, and he turned his head to look down at her from above.  
  
“I do.” She smiled. “Did you know that?”  
  
“I...” He touched his lips to the top of her head – not a kiss, but a resting point as he tried to slow those amazing thoughts whipping through his mind. “...I hoped you did.”  
  
She reached up and pressed her palm to his cheek again. “...you'll get this project done soon?”  
  
“As soon as I'm able,” he whispered. He closed his eyes. “Because God, Emily, I love you too. More than I ever thought possible.”  
  
“Then hurry it up. Hurry so we can see each other every night, all night, just like we used to.”  
  
He nodded, slow and dreamy. “I will. I will.”


	7. Chapter 7

“What's this?”  
  
It was probably pretty lucky that Tom was looking straight at Wily when he said that, because he got to see the way the younger man's eyes widened, how his eyebrows arched straight into his hairline. “Where'd you get that?”  
  
Tom held up the blueprint. “Your sketchbook.” He paused as he took in Wily's face. “It was loose. I didn't have to rip it or any-”  
  
“When did you decide you could...” Wily hesitated this time. He took a moment or two to think, to regulate his breathing before he could get angry Tom guessed, before he visibly swallowed. And then he inclined his head. “It's a sketch.”  
  
“I know that.” Tom let his eyes wander across the page as he crossed the room. “Just curious as to how it's relevant to our work. The firearm, for instance.”  
  
There was silence, just a little moment of it, just long enough to make Tom look up again, before Wily spoke. “I was...considering other scenarios that we hadn't discussed before. Last night. My insomnia kicked up again, so I thought, and I drew.”  
  
Tom nodded slowly. “I see. So...what scenarios call for us to arm our robots?”  
  
Wily ended up meeting him halfway, taking the page from Tom's hand and holding it where they could both see. He studied it. “Several. There are several, really.”  
  
“...like what?”  
  
Wily lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I didn't exactly write any down...”  
  
“You're a brilliant man, Albert.” When Wily snapped his eyes up to meet Tom's, he fought the discomfort that came from holding his gaze. “I'm sure you can remember some of them.”  
  
Wily stared. And then he nodded. “Of course.” And then he let Tom take the paper again and began to pace, his hands held together against the small of his back. “Consider this...a cave-in.”  
  
Tom nodded, humming in acknowledgment.  
  
“A whole squad of our robots are trapped on the other side of thick walls of rock, a whole _legion_ of them, something that would take countless man hours to replace.”  
  
Tom cocked a brow. “The coding includes programming for the others to remove the obstruction by lifting it and moving it one rock at a time. They have the strength for it.”  
  
“Yes, but that takes _time,_ Tom, time that could be spent mining that ore. And regardless of the strength they have, they'd still be putting unnecessary wear on their systems. Now, consider that we arm the robots with weak lasers, just strong enough to burn through the sensitive, crumbling material that the mountains are made up of while simultaneously cauterizing a strong archway to prevent anything from collapsing further.”  
  
“Say that laser goes off at the wrong angle, causes an even _worse_ cave-in...”  
  
“Not with your coding.” Wily met his eyes, held them firm. “Not with the minds we're giving them. It'll be just a little calculation, just a quick one, barely taking up any space at all, to figure out the proper angle for them to fire the thing at. And there'll be _safeties,_ Tom, ones that the machine will actively have to remove and that will snap back into place the second they put the laser away again.”  
  
Tom shook his head. “It isn't infallible.”  
  
“ _Nothing's_ infallible. But it's close.” He began to pace again. “Consider then the acts of terrorists.”  
  
“Terrorists.”  
  
“Yes, _terrorists._ ” He sounded sharp, exasperated, and Tom snapped his mouth shut again. “Terrorists, religious zealots, disenfranchised workers, anyone who'll find a reason to distrust such advanced artificial intelligence. They'll try to deactivate the machines in any way that they can, and I can guarantee that nine times out of ten it'll involve a bomb or a gun. All our hard work, gone in a second.”  
  
It wasn't that he hadn't considered it before, but just having the mere possibility stated so succinctly made a shiver run down Tom's spine. He stared across the room at their first prototype, the machine he knew so intimately that he could probably dismantle it in his sleep. It wasn't even complete. They had so far to go, so damn far, and yet he already felt such a sense of ownership, bordering on parental, that his heart started pounding in his chest.  
  
“Say we arm a few of the robots with guns during each shift. Allow them to defend themselves and their fellow machines in dire circumstances.”  
  
“But what if they get separated?” Tom heard himself asking. “The defenders and the workers, so to speak. They'd still be defenseless.”  
  
Wily was quiet for a moment. “...you know, you're right. It might be best to arm all of them.”  
  
Tom shook his head, touching a fist to his mouth. “We don't need to do that.”  
  
“What else do you suggest?”  
  
“I don't know,” he said softly. Men were running through his mind with grenades, with bombs strapped to their chests, with shotguns in their hands. They sneered. They ran straight into the mines, and then explosions, explosions to rock the entire city, to destroy an entire economy in a matter of seconds, to murder innocents in the fallout. He snapped out of it with a gasp and dragged his hands through his hair.  
  
It took him a pressure squeezing his shoulders for him to realize that Wily was talking to him, that he was right there holding him firm. “Tom. _Tom._ ” It was the first time the younger man had called him by his name. It made Tom meet his eyes immediately, made him feel the current of partnership flowing strongly between them, made him try to figure out the strange disconnect between trusting this man with so much and yet so little. “Are you all right?”  
  
Tom nodded. “I'm fine. I'm sorry.” He gently broke away from Wily and went to lean against the nearby desk with a sharp sigh.  
  
“It wasn't a bad idea,” Wily was saying. “Your ideas are never bad, after all.”  
  
“I don't know what else we could do,” Tom murmured. “We can't risk them getting destroyed like that. Can you imagine trying to explain that to the board? Trying to get more funding to build them all over again? We'd be laughed out of the city.”  
  
“Probably'd never work again.”  
  
“Mm.” He dipped his head, feeling the strain on his stiff neck from sleeping at his desk for a week straight. “...the firearms would be affordable, wouldn't they? And the mining lasers?”  
  
Wily wandered into Tom's field of vision, cocked out a hip and leaned against the wall beside his desk, arms crossed over his chest. “Hell, we could probably get a nice package deal if we chose the company smartly.”  
  
Tom breathed out a quiet chuckle. “Of course.”  
  
“Shall I put in the order?”  
  
Tom lifted a hand and waved vaguely. “Please.”  
  
~~  
  
It was strange, but with each passing day that he spent away from Emily, Tom felt like he was becoming more and more crude. It didn't make sense. Out of the both of them _she_ was the crude one, the one that swore like a sailor, that burped without a thought, that didn't hesitate on the rare moments they saw each other to shove him into a chair and ride him into oblivion without removing a single stitch of clothing. He was the soft one. The gentle one. The one that should've refined her, that should only have been affected by that roughness when he saw her frequently.  
  
And yet here he was, stumbling into the lab, muttering about waking up at the fucking asscrack of dawn.  
  
It wasn't a choice, necessarily, nor insomnia. He'd spent the night tossing and turning in his apartment, wishing that Emily wasn't working the graveyard shift so he could've broken the three-week stretch he'd gone without seeing her, smelling her shampoo on his pillow from where she'd crashed there while he was working the night before, and when he finally fell asleep it was only for an hour or two, just long enough for him to have a dream that froze his blood: Wily, standing on top of the mines, the wind whipping his coat around his legs, the moon making his teeth gleam from beneath his fedora, and the robots stretching out beyond his outstretched hands, each with a gun pointing straight at the city.  
  
It'd been two weeks since they'd armed the machines, and it was still all Tom thought about. He regretted it. He hated it. A man like him didn't do well with violence, even the bare suggestion of it. It made him uncomfortable and scared, so that he was easy to push. To bully. He had this vague feeling that Wily knew that.  
  
He rubbed at the bridge of his nose as he crossed to his desk and leaned against it. He didn't understand his hesitance, his suspicions. Albert Wily was a brilliant man, far more brilliant than Tom thought anyone had ever given him true credit for. He had an eye for nuance, an ear for secrets, and a mouth for conciseness. He was everything that Tom wasn't. He'd pushed this project to new heights of genius, so that they could end up saving countless generations from the violence that these workers had to go through day in and day out.  
  
And yet the way they were guaranteeing it...was through these firearms.  
  
His thoughts were drunken, stirring around in a frenzy, and for the life of him Tom couldn't sort them out. He sat in his chair with a huff and stared at the desk surface. After a few seconds he flicked his eyes to his notebook before pulling it toward him and flipping to a blank page. Out came his pen.  
  
A month ago Emily had confessed she'd always loved the feeling of getting a letter as a child, whether it be for her birthday or a holiday, and that even after she'd graduated from high school and was getting nothing but bills she still found a thrill at an envelope showing up in her mailbox. Tom hadn't hesitated to pen her a letter at work the next day, to send it to her little hovel in the slums. He'd received a reply not even two days later. She had a beautiful swoop to her handwriting, little intricacies like the way she drew little circles to dot her i's or how her e's always seemed to flow to the letter after it like cursive, and she had a surprisingly sophisticated writing voice. He was hungry for more of it. Even after he'd convinced Emily to start sleeping at his apartment between split-shifts he'd continued the letter-writing tradition, simply leaving it for her to find on his dresser, always anxious to find her reply in its place when he managed to stumble home for a shower and a nap in a bed instead of at a desk.  
  
Though it'd been years since Tom had kept a journal, he found that writing was a fantastic way for him to peruse his thoughts with a fine-toothed comb. He only hoped that Emily wouldn't mind the intrusion, the shifting from the flowery words of love he typically used.  
  
 _“...I feel I've built a great and powerful evil. Or rather, together, Albert and I have built it...”_  
  
He paused, his pen bleeding ink into the paper. Felt the heaviness of guilt pressing down on him, making him shift, making him sick. He sucked in a heavy, thick breath.  
  
The door opened and Tom jerked his eyes up. “Albert?”  
  
Wily. Clothed in that coat and that fedora, over a slightly wrinkled button-down and limp pants, the same ones he'd worn the day before. He plucked the hat from his head, exposing the dark circles under his eyes. He seemed just as surprised to see Tom.“What the hell are you doing here so early?” he asked.  
  
Tom flicked his gaze from his partner to his notebook and back again. “I, uh...I couldn't sleep.”  
  
Wily smirked. “Catching my insomnia? We've spent too much time side-by-side, my friend.”  
  
He was supposed to reply with something witty or funny, he knew that, but he couldn't, not when his heart was suddenly beating a little faster with how Wily started across the room, straight toward the prototype that stood so close to Tom's desk. He stiffened, and Wily glanced at him with a wrinkled brow before he squatted down and started checking the wiring, as he always did. “I, uh...”  
  
“What's eating you?” Wily touched part of the machine's casing, the place where they'd discussed it being stretched a little too tight, too thin. “You're jumpy. Have too much coffee?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Wily flicked his eyes away, and Tom followed them to the empty coffee pot. Tom gulped. “You go to Starbucks and don't even get me anything. Nice. Really nice, Tom.”  
  
Tom instinctively grabbed the sheet of notebook paper a little tighter, and the crumpling drew Wily's attention. “Had some at home. Figured I needed to...before it went bad or anything.”  
  
“Your girlfriend not drinking it all?” Wily asked. His tone was low, distracted. He was studying the piece of paper from a distance. “...what is that, a love letter?”  
  
“Oh, you know.” Tom shrugged. “It's a thing.”  
  
“Now, I know you can't be writing a love letter to your girlfriend...because you just wrote one, what, yesterday?” Even as Wily began to brew a pot of coffee he didn't take his eyes off of the piece of paper. Simply began to tilt his head to the side, a mischievous smirk on his lips. “No wonder you're so jumpy. You're writing one to _me,_ aren't you?”  
  
Teasing, that's all it was, and yet it made Tom stiffen. “Hey, that's not-”  
  
Wily was moving, coming straight for the desk. “Knew it was only a matter of time. I'm flattered, Tom,” he drawled, even as Tom came to his feet and fumbled with the notebook and ripped out the page so he could stuff it in his pocket. “Might as well let me read it. I'm already here.”  
  
“I don't think-”  
  
“It's gotta be steamy if you're getting so nervous,” he murmured, shooting him that wide grin that always made Tom feel just a little left of center. “Isn't that so?”  
  
Tom folded the letter sloppily, but Wily was already there, tilting his head back so he could hold eye contact with Tom even with their height difference. “You need to-”  
  
Wily shot out a hand and Tom batted it away, eyes widening, feeling panicked, feeling like prey with every step that Wily took that made Tom retreat, that made him flail just to keep his laughing partner away, that made him suddenly hit the wall and had Wily coming right along with him, one knee between his and one hand on his chest and the other trapping his wrist like a manacle.  
  
Tom stared, watched Wily sweep his eyes over his face from top to bottom in a long and lingering look, and then his partner was jerking away, leaving the paper in Tom's hand. “Then again,” Wily murmured, “it'll be so much more fun to get a letter in my mailbox.” He turned his back on Tom. Began to wander back to the coffeepot to check the brewing progress. “Wouldn't you agree?”  
  
Something felt off about that statement. And Tom wasn't even sure why. He licked his lips and touched a hand to his forehead.  
  
“Relax, would you? I was just playing around.”  
  
Tom sank back down into his chair. “Yeah. Sorry. Just...rough night.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
Silence stretched over the room. Tom waited for Wily to start pouring them each coffee, to start doctoring it, before he folded the letter and slid it into his shirt pocket. The air was thick for the rest of the day.


	8. Chapter 8

The apartment was silent again. Emily stared around it, tracing every surface with her eyes, feeling her heart plunge into her stomach. The one night she had off this whole week, and Tom was working. She should've known. The fates weren't exactly in her favor lately.

She comforted herself with the fact that it wasn't her doing, necessarily, or even Tom's. He was being as attentive as always. If he knew she'd be stopping by the apartment for a break in between shifts he'd have things all laid out for how she prepared her coffee, maybe would even have a plate of cookies that he'd splurged on during his last grocery trip wrapped up neatly next to the mugs. He took such great pains to make everything perfect for her.  
  
So, she wondered, why was he so reluctant to take another step or two?  
  
Emily sighed as she unwound her scarf and tossed it aside. Nothing doing. Nothing she could change right now, when he was still so swamped. She tried to work the tension out of her shoulders herself as she went into the bedroom, drawn to the dresser like a moth.  
  
A fresh letter, as she expected, and she plucked it up and held it to her nose, surrounding herself with the scent of his aftershave. But there was something else, too. Something crisper, a little cleaner, a little fruitier. She wrinkled her brow as she dove onto the bed on her stomach and ripped the envelope open.  
  
It was time, then. The project was finished, maybe just getting cleaned up. But there was something else. Something that made unease settle inside of her instead of the excitement she should have been feeling.  
  
Tom was a shy man, watchful and observant and capable of feeling things to a level that she never thought possible. But he'd never spoken of fear.  
  
 _"I fear that I have put you and this entire city in danger...In the meantime, please be careful. This world is getting darker all the time."_  
  
She dropped the letter like a flame, knowing somehow even then that the smell on the letter belonged to Albert Wily, the man who'd instigated every little thing that had been taking her Tom away from her. Who made too many things happen without reason, without explanation. Who Tom defended blindly, because he would defend a serial killer if the man only said he was sorry.  
  
It was true, Tom had made her softer. But laying here, staring at that letter, filled to the brim with worries, with confusion, with downright fear, Emily felt something strange. It was bubbling up, first with only pressure, and then with the slowly building temperature of lava, until she was scorched from the inside out. It was topped like a sundae with an itching of her palm, one that only holding her switchblade would ease.  
  
This man wanted to scare her lover half to death? To take over his project and twist it into something unrecognizable? Fine. Let him. But there was no way in hell he was getting away with it without Emily Stanton getting her fingers sticky.  
  
She felt remarkably lucid as she crossed the room and picked up Tom's phone. Hoped that things hadn't changed since the last time she memorized the number she was punching in. Waited for the phone to be answered.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
If marvels never ceased... ”Billy. Goddamn, it's been a while.”  
  
A snort. “I know that's gotta be Emily. I've been Willy to everybody else for, what's it been, five years? Where the hell you been?”  
  
“Around.” She could feel her body cocking her hip out, thrusting her chin up, resting her hand right where that knife ought to be. Funny what just a voice could do to a person. “Listen, I don't got long to talk, but I got a favor.”  
  
“A favor?” Yet another snort. “Jesus, Em, I got out of that shit three years back. I'm clean now. Got me a good job down at the casino throwing people out on their ass.”  
  
“Never mind all that. I know you, Billy. It'll take you like two seconds, and I got some cash saved up. There's gotta be something you're trying to buy. You still with Stacy? Still saving up for that engagement ring?”  
  
Silence. She had him, and she knew it.  
  
“I just need you to get me some info. No dirty work. None of that. Just some numbers.”  
  
Billy heaved a sigh, and she couldn't help but smile. “I'm not making any guarantees...but whaddya want?”  
  
“I need info on Albert Wily.”  
  
“You kidding me?”  
  
“I'm dead serious. Listen, I need his address, and anything I'd need to get in. I'm talking passcodes if it's an apartment complex, if he's got an alarm or a guard dog, what floor he's on, any of that.”  
  
Billy chuckled. “It's your lucky day, sweetheart. I can get you that in a day, not even. Where can I reach you when I got it?”  
  
A newspaper caught her eye, already clipped out and sitting on Tom's desk. She wandered over as far as the cord would allow her and plucked it up. “Don't bother,” she murmured, narrowing her eyes. “I'll call you in a couple of days. You just keep your phone on.”  
  
“Gotcha.”  
  
“And Billy? I need it by Friday. I can still take you, knock them teeth outta your mouth before you can say 'Uncle.'”  
  
She heard the smile on his voice. “You still got that knife?”  
  
She grinned right back. “You'll find out if you don't get me that shit.”  
  
“Fine, fine, whatever. I'll get right on it.”  
  
“Later.”  
  
She laid the phone down, but missed the cradle, so focused was she on the newspaper clipping. It was tiny, barely even an eighth of a column, but it told of the press conference coming up for Drs. Thomas Light and Albert Wily on Friday, where they would reveal one of their members of the robot workforce, show all of its features. Stay tuned, it said, for the full story on Saturday.  
  
Friday night, when they'd be polishing the rest of the robots and filling out their final reports. When Tom wouldn't even think of getting home. And Wily either, for that matter.  
  
She had one night, then, one night to get what she needed. One long day on Saturday, working from sunrise to twilight at the factory before the entire city would change. And then she'd find Tom, and she'd be able to calm his fears for once and for all, be able to tell him if he was right or wrong all along.  
  
It was instinct to grab her switchblade from where it rested on Tom's nightstand, to hide it in her pocket. She decided not to think too hard about why.  
  
~~~  
  
Silence. Absolute silence in the entire laboratory. But it was a strange silence, one that Tom wasn't used to yet. The rippling feeling of anticipation was part of it, he realized. It was like the atoms were vibrating just under his skin. He paused for a moment, breathed, simply felt the buzzing, the immensity of the mantle on his shoulders, before he closed his eyes and dipped his head.  
  
There was a little spark across the room as Wily soldered a detail onto the last metal man in the line. He exhaled, and when Tom looked at him he was wiping the back of his hand across his forehead, leaving a trail of black behind. Probably a bit of oil. Tom tightened his fingers around the cloth in his hands before he looked at the creature in front of him again.  
  
“You ready for tomorrow?” Wily asked softly.  
  
A jitter shot down Tom's spine, and he shifted to shake it off. “Yes. You?”  
  
“Never been more ready for anything.”  
  
Tom nodded. He lifted his cloth and went back to polishing the surface of the robot. It was a lost cause, in a way – they'd make their ways into the mines and get covered in dirt and dust within an hour – but there was a bit of vanity in it. He wanted them to look their best when they tromped in for work for the first time.  
  
As they had been every ten minutes for hours now, his thoughts went to Emily. She was working all day, first to third shift, and he wondered if she was awake, if she was alert. Wondered just how much his stipend from this project would stretch. Enough for a ring? Enough to bring her into his life for good? Enough to keep her safe in this tumultuous world?  
  
“How long do we have?”  
  
Tom glanced up at the clock. “About six hours, I'd say.” He set the cloth and polish aside and removed his glasses, began to clean them on his shirt. The lab coats had been abandoned months ago. They were in their shirtsleeves now – Wily literally, with those button-downs he was so fond of, and Tom figuratively, in his t-shirt and jeans – but their clothes for the media attention of the official launch were stashed down the hall. It was Wily who had suggested that they might not make it home tonight, that they should be prepared for this eventuality just in case, and he'd even taken it upon himself to critique Tom's outfit that he'd brought in. Sent him home to get another shirt. He was such a woman sometimes.  
  
Tom was vaguely uncomfortable with the level of affection he thought those words with.  
  
“Have you calculated the amount of time we've spent working on this project?”  
  
Tom looked at his partner again, but the younger man was putting up the soldering iron, his back to him. “...not quite. Have you?”  
  
“No.” Wily chuckled. “I don't want to know how cheated we've been.”  
  
Tom quirked a brow. “We received a stipend.”  
  
“A stipend. A meager morsel of financial aid for us to live on, nothing more.” Wily slid his hands in his pockets as he began wandering across the room, his eyes distant. “They have geniuses like us working on this, on revolutionizing the working world, and they cast us crumbs. Keep the pearls to themselves.”  
  
This was new. Tom blinked as he leaned against his desk, more from exhaustion than anything.  “We do this for the love of creation, of...of knowledge, Albert. Not the money.”  
  
Wily cast him a glance. His eyes were twinkling with amusement. “You mean to tell me that if you had to choose between doing this for what you're getting now, or for enough money to marry your little sweetheart-” Tom tried to figure out if that was condescension or not. “-you'd do it just for the love of knowledge?”  
  
“No, I...” Tom tented his fingers against his lips as he thought. It was four in the morning. His body was still fighting the sleep schedule even this far in. “I just...I mean...we can't expect more. This is our first project. We have to build a reputation first.”  
  
“We built a reputation all through our schooling, or they wouldn't have approached us in the first place.”  
  
“ _You_ wouldn't have been approached. I'm just the one that proposed it.”  
  
“And yet they accepted it.” Wily pointed at him, a jab of his index finger. “Because they knew you could fucking do it.”  
  
Tom stared at Wily, wrinkling his brow. “...what are you saying, Albert?”  
  
“I'm saying...” He sighed. He rubbed his face. “...I'm saying we need to take command of this. Of how it's portrayed and released.”  
  
“I...don't understand.”  
  
Wily paused in front of his desk and leaned into it, pinning Tom with his eyes. “We've achieved greatness, Tom. True artificial intelligence. Do you realize that?” He gestured behind him, swept his arm all the way down the row of machines. “That these creatures can begin to think for themselves? That we're a step closer to mechanical sentience? They can automatically heal themselves, they can think whether they should move an obstruction or vaporize it...they're on the borderline of reason.” He wasn't blinking. He was staring straight at Tom with those wide, bloodshot eyes of his, barely even breathing. “We're a step away from creating _life._ We did it. You and me. And I think we deserve something more for that.”  
  
“...you want us to hold them for greater compensation.”  
  
Wily slowly grinned at him.  
  
Tom began shaking his head. He couldn't stop. “We did this for the good of mankind. To save lives. To keep whole generations from being wiped out. We...Albert, we did it for _good!_ ”  
  
"But why does that have to be all it is? Do you understand how long we've been working toward this?" Wily asked softly, his voice just a hitch above a whisper. "It's not just been the past years, Tom. It's been our _whole damn lives._ Minds like ours don't come along unless they're supposed to do something great. And we _have!_ God, we've done _everything_ for these people! Don't you see that?"  
  
“And so we hold them? Hold the greatest thing that's ever happened to the people of this city until they fill our pocketbooks?” Tom dragged his hands through his hair as he shook his head. "This is all for nothing if we pervert it tonight."  
  
"It's not a perversion!" Wily slammed a fist down on the desk, making the paperweights tremble, making Tom suck in a sudden breath. "Why the hell _shouldn't_ we receive more than paltry recognition for this? No money? No glory? Tom, we'll change the world in a single night. Do you hear me? Nothing will ever be the same. And this can either go straight to the board that gave us that grant money and give them all the credit...or we can step up and take charge. The city will be powerless without us if we hold these machines in our hands."  
  
Wily was shaking, Tom realized. The man of infinite patience and control was shaking. Tom didn't know how to process that. He stared at the younger man with a wrinkled brow, trying to read him, trying to understand.  
  
Wily moved forward, coming around the desk, and Tom had to force himself to keep his feet bolted to the ground. "I put all of this in motion years ago," Wily whispered, coming to a stop a few feet away from him. "This...this transfer of power. What have those fools that rule the city ever done for us? Their banks are filled with cash from our suffering. They sit there day after day, counting every little penny they can squeeze from our pockets, ignoring the screams, the helpless, the _dying._ Do you think they care? No." He began to slowly shake his head. "No, they don't." And then he reached out, touched Tom's shoulders. "They killed your father, Tom. _They're_ the ones that did it. Those mines have been unstable for years. They could've taken steps to prevent your father's death before you were even born. But they didn't."  
  
Tom moved out of Wily's grip. The words spun around in his head, making him dizzy, making him sick.  
  
Wily's hands gripped empty air before dropping as heavy fists to his sides. "For years, I thought I'd do this alone. Take control. But I don't want to anymore." And a long moment of silence, where they simply held each other's gazes, breathed in the thick air. "...you're the only other worthwhile human being I've ever met, Tom. Come on. Don't give this up."  
  
Tom exhaled sharply, every breath of air in his lungs shooting out in a rush. There it was. Approval. He'd been starved for approval ever since his father had died, _especially_ approval like this. His mother was wonderful, but she was his _mother._ And though Emily made him two hundred feet tall, gave him a reason to take on the world, there was something there that he was missing. A strange, sort of masculine respect. He didn't even really know how to articulate it. All he knew was that something inside of him was swelling, making his chest puff out an inch, making his muscles feel as if they thickened and grew stronger.  
  
But on the head of that, he felt something else beneath it, felt it in his very marrow. Albert Wily was desperate for power. He craved it like Tom craved that approval. And this was how he aimed to get it.  
  
Could he let that happen? Even with the soft siren's song ringing in his ear, telling him he could have it too?  
  
Tom locked his hands behind his neck as he looked down at the floor. He couldn't sort out his thoughts fast enough. "Albert, I..." They were jumbling, colliding, piling on top of each other in the deafening silence. And then he heard Wily's breathing kick up a notch, grow sharper, grow louder and faster, like he was running a marathon. It sparked a small panic somewhere inside of Tom. He backed away a step, glanced up to see Wily's huge eyes and tense cheeks, before he turned and began to pace away.  
  
"Don't you walk away from me!" Wily suddenly bellowed, and Tom froze, keeping his back to the man. "Don't you turn your back on me like that, not when I just..." There was a strange little noise as Wily's words died off, just the softest millisecond of keening, before there was nothing but quiet.  
  
There, in that quiet, with the space between him and Wily stretching out for miles, Tom finally began to place his thoughts. "...I never wanted power, Albert," he murmured. "All I wanted...was to heal. To protect. To help every single man and woman who exhaust themselves half to death just to make ends meet. Especially Emily, she..." Tom felt a chilliness breeze through the air, but he pushed on. "She works harder than I ever have. Every day of her life. How long until she gets taken from me too? God, Albert, all I want is to fix this. I don't need glory from it all. I just want the satisfaction of...of making everything better." And then he shook his head again, turning to look at his partner. "We don't need a power shift to fix everything. We don't need to just transfer the keys to the city from one man to another. We need to...to enable the people in this city to change things themselves. To give the power back to them, _all_ of them, not just to you." _And definitely,_ he thought, _not to us._  
  
Wily tightened his jaw, his eyes frigid and sharp. "You're a fool, Tom," he said softly. "They can't do this themselves. They're sheep, that's all, sheep looking for a new leader. They can't be trained into something better."  
  
"Then what was I?" Tom interrupted. "I came from the lowest of the low families, you know that, and look at me now. Here. With you. Creating these...these _incredible_ creatures." He turned and looked over the rows and rows of machines. "What was I?"  
  
"You were born in the wrong family," Wily murmured. "And now it's all for nothing."  
  
Tom turned and met Wily's eyes again. For just one moment there was a softness in them, a glimpse of fragile vulnerability. And then it shattered when a wall slammed down on top of it. "...you'll see, Albert," Tom said. "You'll see what can happen when men and these machines work together. The things they can create."  
  
"Man wasn't built for such cooperation."  
  
"You'll see," Tom pressed. And then he reached out, felt the thick and cold lever as his fingers wrapped around it. It took everything he had to pull it down, to snap it into place, and then second it clicked, the few remaining working lightbulbs flashed on and off in the rapid shuffling of electricity. One shattered, sent shards of glass flying everywhere, but Tom couldn't be startled, not when he was holding Wily's gaze, not when he was trying _so damn hard_ to read everything that his partner wasn't saying.  
  
But there was no doing. The vulnerability was gone.  
  
When the lights finally shone bright again there was a sudden, loud thrum as every machine came to life, as each robot stood tall and pulled back their shoulders. Tom knew they'd do no more. Their programming didn't kick in until sunrise, until the hour they would file out of the building and walk straight into the mines.  
  
Tom dipped his head to Wily. "Tomorrow, Albert?" he asked quietly.  
  
Wily didn't nod. He closed his eyes for a moment, just a brief moment of contemplation, before opening them again. "I'll see you soon, Tom."  
  
  
~~  
  
  
He was gone.  
  
Wily stared at the door as it swung shut. To a bar, he said. Liquid courage before the reporters arrived. Something to calm him. But it was a lie. He was going to that bar to escape, to put distance between them.  
  
Wily's nostrils flared. He stood there, shaking, feeling parts of himself start to split off inside, start to...to shake...  
  
To erupt.  
  
It started with a seethe, with hissing pulled from his gritted teeth, but then there was more: the pain in his clenched muscles, the pounding of his heart, the throbbing of his veins. He turned his eyes on the row of machines, flicking from one to the next, each identical, each touched by the both of them, each charmed into life. They were their _children._ They were their tools to take this world by storm.  
  
“Useless,” he whispered. His body felt twitchy. Like it was shifting on its own. He sucked in a sharp breath as he shook his head. And then he let his voice rise, until it shook the windows. “So fucking _useless!_ ”  
  
The chair was in his hands, and then it was flying across the room, clattering against the first machine, but it wasn't _enough,_ it barely even _nicked_ the thing, and so he picked up a wrench and hurled himself at it, began to rain blows upon it. He pounded and pounded and pounded until it was dented and sparking. And as the red in his eyes began to fade, he realized he was staring into its freshly polished surface. He could see the shape of himself. The curve of his head.  
  
He took the machine's arms in his hands and leaned in until his shape blurred further, until it was just a shadow. “...so...useless...”  
  
Everything.  
  
He'd offered him _everything,_ he'd...he'd...  
  
Wily shoved away from the machine and stumbled across the room, slumping against his desk. His breathing felt thicker. Wet. No, no, he wouldn't...  
  
He shoved everything off of the desk in one fell push. The lamp. The sketchbook. Papers flew everywhere.  
  
“It's not my fault,” he hissed. “We were...it made _sense. We_ made sense.” He dragged his fingers through his hair and threw it every which way out of its gelled hold. “Everything was perfect until...until _she..._ ” The little bitch. The whore. Already skulking about Light's home, waiting for him to return, to sink her claws into him and take him even further from Wily.  
  
He focused his eyes on the papers scattered across the floor. He could read them all even from here, just from the formatting. He knew exactly what each one held. Each picture. Each blueprint. Each plan of creation.  
  
...but there weren't enough.  
  
He felt that surge of panic again as he went and knelt beside the papers and began to rifle through them. Things were missing. Things that he and Light had seen, talked about, dreamed about, even laughed about. He took careful stock. Realized that the blueprint that had started all this, the one of the armed machines, it was gone. And not just that, but...but others. But how? Where were they? He searched his mind, tried to figure out if he'd taken them home already, if he'd filed them away where they'd never be seen by another eye again. But he couldn't remember. Things were blurry in his mind. There were too many voices, too much movement. But who would have-  
  
And then the switch flipped. And then he knew.  
  
He sucked in another breath. Nice and slow. Calming. He felt a warmth spread through him. He closed his eyes and focused on it, on the simple feeling of expanding his lungs.  
  
It was time.  
  
He opened his eyes and focused them on his office. Licked his lips as he stood tall and crossed to it.  
  
That blueprint that Light had discovered, with the armed machines, that hadn't just been an idea. A dream. No, he'd been twisting it into a reality for months now every second that Light was gone home to fuck his little slut. All he'd needed had been the mind, and Light had been more than happy to create that, hadn't he? To put in those little mining bots? All Wily needed to do was tweak it. And that was easy enough once the complex basework was laid.  
  
Because it was true. He was a genius. But only with the body.  
  
Wily unlocked the door to his office and stepped inside. He approached the large cabinet to the side. And then he opened it and came face-to-face with a red eye.  
  
“...hello there,” he whispered.  
  
The machine stared back.  
  
It was beautiful, really. The greatest work of art he'd ever created. Wired through a separate transmitter to receive the same waking signal that woke the other machines. Wired to respond exclusively to his voice, his commands.  
  
Wily backed up. “Come out.” And it did. The great hulking machine. Sleek. Dangerous. A telescopic eye that even now extended to study him more closely. It tilted its head a little to the side, and Wily could almost see the thing's elementary mind working to try to understood what it saw in front of it.  
  
“You have a mission.”  
  
The machine seemed to perk up a little.  
  
Wily made his way to another cabinet and opened it. He pulled a number of weapons out: the same firearm the mining bots were equipped with, a longer rifle that he could barely even lift, a thick knife that could saw through a tree branch. “You have been programmed with coordinates, yes?”  
  
“...affirmative.”  
  
Wily closed his eyes and felt the shiver shoot down his spine. Oh yes, that was perfect. That...that cold mechanical tone. Absolutely incredible. He held out the weapons, and the machine took them, began to strap them into places already set aside for them. “...you will make your way there, where you will provide me with entrance at any cost. And then you will await further commands.”  
  
“...affirmative.”  
  
“Go.”  
  
It turned. It went, in those great hulking steps. Wily went to the rack in the laboratory next to the main door and plucked his fedora from it. He put it on his head, felt that surge of animalistic power that he associated so closely with it, and then reached for the long overcoat, the one that tempered it.  
  
He paused. Let his fingers hover against the fabric.  
  
Just how much did he want tempered tonight?  
  
He stared. He thought. And then he withdrew his hand.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's fascinating how one person can be breaking down so succinctly sometimes when an entire world is building up around him, isn't it?
> 
> The encounter between Wily and Emily here is actually the very first Protoverse thing I ever wrote. I remember trying incredibly hard to find a reason for Wily to ask Emily to come with him during "The Father of Death," and originally wrote it as a standalone thing where he was deeply and endlessly fascinated by her, but that was before I started writing my Act II expansion, before Wily started developing a fascination and obsession with Thomas Light that I never anticipated. So this chapter's been through the ringer when it comes to edits. I'm still not happy with it. But sometimes you just have to let it go.
> 
> TW for rape in the chapter ahead. Not deeply described. Not lingered on. But I have to warn you regardless.

Her heart was pounding faster, a ticking time bomb. Emily exhaled sharply as she considered the door, considered the padlock that was a staple in this part of town. She didn't have time for this. Every second that passed was a weight against her, in the scale not in her favor. She couldn't afford it.  
  
A sort of icy determination crept down her spine. It took control of her arm, made her pull out the thick wrench tucked in her coat from the factory, and she watched as it struck the padlock right off the door.  
  
Twelve years off the street, and she still had it.  
  
Emily glanced into the hallway. Nothing. No movement at all. So he really _was_ gone. Good. Good, then. She took in a deep breath to calm her heart before shutting the door behind her.  
  
She'd expected things to be finer in the house of Albert Wily, but maybe he'd lost more than they ever dreamed.  
  
Empty. So many of the rooms were empty. It was like he didn't live here at all. There would be a bookshelf, maybe, or a pillow on the floor, but other than that...nothing. The hardwood floor creaked beneath her feet as she crept deeper into the house, touching each doorframe as he looked inside. But there was nothing.  
  
Until she reached the room at the end of the hallway.  
  
This was his sanctum, she decided. There was an enormous desk with a plush chair behind it. A crystal glass made for drinking alcohol. A cabinet to the side, filled with bottles. A fax machine. A glass figurine. A couch beside a giant bookshelf, filled with books – no, not books, just...bound things. Scientific and robotic journals.  
  
There were papers on the desk, though, and she felt a pull toward it. She'd always had sharp instincts. It was what kept her alive as a child. And it was what drew her to Tom, what told her that he was a worthwhile creature. She followed the pull again and began to go through them.  
  
She recognized a lot of the words, if only because she'd heard Tom go on about them when he was overcome with excitement. There were figures, _positive_ figures, listing the predicted decline of injuries and casualties that the Geological Unmanned Terraforming System would bring to pass, one page right after the other. But she realized as she went on that ninety percent of what she was looking at happened to have attachments. Paper filled margin to margin with the exact same words, but another's handwriting. They were attributed to Wily instead.  
  
“Bastard,” she whispered. There was no reason to copy something like this, word-by-word, unless you were planning to take credit for it. To destroy the prior evidence, so it was your word against another's. And who would get the upper hand? Some young doctor that no one had ever heard of? Or a man with a tragic past, filled to the brim with lost money and dead parents and pulling himself up by his own bootstraps? A man who was a household name?  
  
But this was simple plagiarism. That's all. And she had a feeling that there was something more just waiting to be found.  
  
She continued through the stack, piece by piece, abandoning order, abandoning trying to cover her tracks. If she found something important here tonight, then she'd know all her instincts were correct. She'd be safe.  
  
If she didn't...well, that wasn't possible.  
  
She knew the second she came face-to-face with paydirt. Her exhale was a little heady, a little shaky, as she lifted the first document like it was made of gold. She recognized the basic design as something Tom had been working on extensively, as the first phase of the mining robots that were being turned on this very night. But this design...this was different. It was mutated. There were cruder additions and variations from the finely crafted thought process Tom always had: a single eye, a massive rifle of some kind with a scope attached, more flexible hands and stronger arms. Each little change was addressed in Wily's handwriting.  
  
Why a rifle? Why an eye that bordered on telescopic? Cold skittered over her until goosebumps popped up all over her skin.  
  
The next packet of paper was no better. It was a schematic for a television screen, the sketched dimensions marking it as massive. Bullet points listed the features, from easy duplication to cameras built invisibly into the screen that could be switched on remotely for seamless surveillance. The Orwellian Telescreen, Wily had dubbed it, whatever that meant. All she understood was that he had somehow gotten the funding for it, that it and many others like it were being constructed right under the city's nose. And if the projected schedule could be trusted, they'd be switched on tonight.  
  
But how? How had he managed to get these built without anyone noticing? People were suspicious here. They were observant. They were more concerned about protecting themselves than anyone else. But then, the city was under constant construction. Constant repair. Those in charge of the city had let it decay too far, and now they were fighting an unending battle to restore it before the buildings themselves collapsed into dust. How many buildings were draped in massive sheets of plastic to protect it from the elements? How many things could be under them?  
  
Tom never hid anything from her. She'd seen him try. It didn't _work._ But he'd never said a damn thing about this. And that meant only one thing.  
  
She felt a steely panic rising up inside of her, unsettling her, making her question everything around her. But she couldn't afford that. She was missing the most important answer: how the _hell_ had Wily gotten all this funded without Tom being aware of it?  
  
There had to be something. If Wily was as clumsily obsessive-compulsive as this, to leave every single incriminating thing he'd ever done right there in his house for any common thief to find, then a copy of a check or a record of emails couldn't be far away, could it? Her mind was racing as she gathered file after file, extracted evidence after evidence, and then there it was, hitting her square between the eyes.  
  
A list of benefactors.  
  
What kind of blackmail must Wily have over these men? That would take even further time, time she didn't have right now. She had to get to Tom. But what if she couldn't? What if he wasn't there? She'd have to go straight to the police...but Tom, he said he'd be home tonight. He'd be looking for her. He'd be worried, especially on a night like tonight, when the machines had finished completion.  
  
She hesitated only a few seconds before she grabbed a clean piece of printer paper and a pen and filled line after line with the fastest scrawl she could manage. It was discombobulated. Her thoughts were too scattered to make any cohesive sense, she realized...but she didn't have a choice.  
  
Living on the street could give you a sixth sense for when it was time to get out, when everything was about to go to hell. It was exploding inside of her like a flare.  
  
~~  
  
He looked at his watch as he sped through the streets. Twenty minutes. That's all he had. Eight before the bar closed. Twelve before Light opened his door. Twenty minutes before the world went to hell.  
  
He should be sitting in his easy chair back in the lab, rubbing his hands together, practicing speeches, perfecting a smile, but he couldn't. There were too many shadows in his head. Too much ice in his veins. But that was all right. Albert Wily worked better this way, with his every neuron drunk on adrenaline. It made him sharper, cleaner. As long as he could hold the fervor down with one hand before it escaped, he could use it.  
  
He carefully scanned the buildings as he passed them, letting the practice of counting down the numbers keep the agitation at bay. He knew the number he was looking for too well. Light let far too many things slip. He was a fool to fill Wily's head with facts, images, desires.  
  
That last thought gave him pause. He tightened his hands around the steering wheel and pressed the pedal a little harder.  
  
Every day was a new way to train himself, to break himself down until he was nothing but a machine like the creatures that held his brand. Every second was a chance for him to light those desires on fire and burn them to the ground, until all he knew was his need for power, for success, for victory. Anything else was dangerous. It threatened to make him slip up one last time, and that was a risk he couldn't take, not when he was _so goddamn close._ He cocked his head suddenly to the side, a crack ripping through the air, and the brief moment of euphoric pain derailed his thoughts to safer waters.  
  
The grand thing about living in a shithole like this city, in something so broken down and covered in coal dust, was that it was far too simple to steer his car into an alleyway, something that hadn't been touched by anything but bums and thugs for God knew how many years, without being noticed by a soul. He might be giving the seamy underbelly of the city a temptation, but if they wanted to volunteer themselves for a lifetime of agony, then so be it. That was their choice. That's all that life was: a series of meaningless choices that might possibly lead to one shining moment of glory. Anyone that touched this vehicle was signing their own death warrant before they even came close to that chance.  
  
There wasn't time to think, to even _breathe._ Wily climbed out of the car and scanned the side of the building, but the moonlight caught on the metal of the fire escape and glinted off of it, just out of his reach. "Shit," he whispered. Another glance around guaranteed him privacy from the empty street, and he shouldered his way through the door of the apartment building seconds later.  
  
He'd never been here. It was fascinating; they were work colleagues, the closest there'd been in quite some time, but that's all their relationship was: work. Anything personal was stuck to what slipped out as they fused steel to steel, as they coaxed joints out of meaningless blocks of metal. Wily had always been smart enough to keep his tongue from flapping. Light, not so much. Wily climbed the stairs and studied the numbers on the doors until one caught his eye, shining more vibrantly than any of the others. That was it.  
  
He began fumbling in his pocket for his wallet, for a card he could use to loosen the locks, but the sound of the door at the bottom of the stairs opening made him jolt back, press himself against the wall where he hoped he might hide in the shadows. And then he heard the way the thing was walking, how its joints rubbed together with a metallic twinge, and he relaxed. He came to the railing of the stairs and peered down at the robot he knew too well.  
  
It lifted its single red eye and pinned him, and for a moment Wily felt a flush of triumph shoot through him. It made him catch his breath. Nothing better. God, he hadn't been with a woman in so fucking _long,_ but _this,_ this sensation, this feeling of being so close to success, to power, was so similar to that ecstasy that he fancied he'd never need to have that kind of vulnerability ever again. Not if he could just replace it tonight. Wily jerked his head back toward the door at the top of the stairs, and the robot came into motion again.  
  
"Open it," Wily muttered as soon as the robot stood beside him, and the metal man considered the door for a long few moments before lifting one of its beefy fists. "No, _no,_ you...listen, you break it, and I'll break _you,_ do you understand me?"  
  
The robot hesitated for only a moment before it opened its fist and let a key dangle from its fingers. Wily stared for a long moment before he took it and carefully slid it into the lock. Perfect fit.  
  
He breathed out a quiet chuckle. "I have no idea how you got this...but you listen better than I thought." And then he opened the door and stepped inside.  
  
The key went into his pocket and he kicked blindly at the door to get it to close, not even bothering to listen for the inevitable click. "Stay there," he said as he pointed vaguely to the shadows in the corner, and that same metallic twinge rang through the air as Wily crossed the room. The next second he was at the desk near the back of the great room, flicking on the lamp before he started pulling out drawers.  
  
Sixteen minutes, he silently registered as he plunged his hands into the stacks of papers hidden in each drawer. _Goddammit, Light, where is it?_ Just one little plan. Just one last little schematic. That's all he needed to tell him he wasn't being a paranoid mess, that he hadn't just conveniently set it aside in another file, before this place got plundered by police and looters alike when the shit hit the fan. Just one little blueprint pinning Wily's name on this far more than he'd ever planned. He was a fool to leave his sketchbook out like that. Light had flipped through it once already, found those firearm specifications, nearly destroyed the plan before it ever went into motion to begin with. Who was to say he wasn't responsible for the pages missing now? The telescreens, the assassin, the very page of armed robots sketched in his style and covered in his handwriting instead of Light's...gone. All gone. They _had_ to be here. He hadn't taken them home, had he? He couldn't have. A shiver caught his body and he keeled over, grabbing his head in a painful grip as a shock pierced his temple like a gunshot. And then nothing. He took a moment to catch his breath. To wonder at how every part of him seemed to be breaking down tonight.  
  
Breaking down until he was nothing but a machine.  
  
He went to work.  
  
Nothing in the first drawer. Nothing in the second. He spat out a frustrated curse as he shut them both and went for the third. Locked. It was in there, he knew it was. He didn't have time for this. He began to turn, to call his robot forth because he was getting this schematic, subtlety be _damned,_ when he saw it: the silver frame holding a picture of a lovely woman.  
  
The name came to him before he registered anything else: _Emily._  
  
Light had let more things slip about this woman than he'd ever planned to. Wily knew everything about her. He knew she was modest, but passionate. Small, but powerful. Electric, but filled with finetuned urgency. The exact kind of person that filled Wily with equal degrees of fear and respect. The exact kind of person that could shatter a world if she chose to.  
  
 _The key to my heart, mind, and soul,_ Light had said more than once. Wily felt a sharp pain inside of him, one that felt almost like it was tinged with green, and hesitated before he reached out and lifted the frame, bringing it closer to his face.  
  
She had the strangest eyes. Blue. A deep, dark blue, almost navy, curved at the edges like cat's eyes, the likes of which he'd never seen before. He felt his fingers tightening around the frame to the point of turning his knuckles white, and he released a quiet shuddering breath. He let the fingers of his right hand break away, skim over the back of the picture frame if only to let blood circulate through them again. And then he felt it. A strange, lifted shape.  
  
A key.  
  
He ripped the taped key away from the back of the frame and shoved it into the third drawer's lock. Fate was on his side tonight. Another thrum of fire through his entire body had a shiver chasing it down his spine.  
  
It was right on top, that schematic of the armed robots that started all this shit in the first place. He pulled it out of the drawer and crammed it into his pocket. The rest, they had to be in here, buried in this heap. Wily sank his hands back into the stacks of paper, gingerly feeling, ignoring the little cuts of pain that shot across his skin, being brought out of it only when a soft voice called behind him.  
  
He whirled around and came face-to-face with those navy blue eyes.  
  
She stared at him, pale, beautiful, startled, before she took a few steps forward, her face twisting in recognition. Apparently Light spoke about Wily too.  
  
"What are you doing here?" she snapped.  
  
He stared at her for another moment before snapping his mouth shut and forcing his lips to twist into a smile. His eyes shifted over her shoulder and met the bright red dot glowing from the wall. It only took a little wave of his hand down by his hip for the red to disappear. "I don't think we've ever been properly introduced," he murmured, meeting Emily's eyes again. "I'm-"  
  
"Doctor Albert Wily, I know who you are." Her heels clipped against the hardwood floor, blocking out the soft click of the door as it shut. "I don't _care_ who you are. All I care about is why you're in Tom's apartment."  
  
"Suspicion!" he breathed, letting out a quiet laugh. "My. How do you know something's not happened to your Tom? That I'm not here to let you know?"  
  
Hesitation crossed her face, but she let it drive her forward another few steps. "Do you think I'm an idiot? God, I know every time a man dies in this city, I go right to rooting through his stuff. Never know when you're gonna find an immortality stone to bring him back."  
  
Light hadn't been overemphasizing her spunk, the little bitch. "Touche."  
  
"Cut the crap. Why are you here?"  
  
This hadn't been in his plans. But, he realized suddenly, maybe that was okay. Plans could change. Plans could be made better. Fear could be the right agent to drive one last missing piece straight to success. He lifted his head, letting his chin jut out in confidence. "I'm here because something is about to go catastrophically wrong. And I wanted to change it."  
  
She narrowed her eyes. They were her strongest weapon, he realized. Every second he spent looking at them made his very marrow a little more agitated, desperate to move into action, whatever it was. God, that was nice. He wondered if it could be harnessed, if maybe that's the whole reason Light fucked her senseless every night, because he saw what he could make her into. "...you're talking about the machines."  
  
His heart skipped a beat. Every neuron in his brain was dashing around, making connections, trying to figure out exactly what the hell she knew, what Light might have told her. "I am."  
  
"What have you done to them?"  
  
He tilted his head, words spilling from his lips. "And even more suspicion. Have you ever trusted anybody in your whole life?” And then he stiffened. He hadn't planned to say that. What was she doing? Why was she affecting him like...like...  
  
"Tom wouldn't do anything to make them go 'catastrophically wrong,'" she said, scowling. "And that leaves you, doesn't it? His colleague? The man he spends more time with than he does with me?"  
  
Every suspicion he had about her suddenly rushed away on a wave of amusement, and he found himself internally laughing before he knew what was happening. Jealousy. Was that really jealousy on her tone? He shook his head in surprise. If she was jealous, he was going to have to change his mutating plan even further, wasn't he? "Things happen, Emily, especially when you're toying with artificial intelligence. Things you never imagined happening at the start. And that's why I'm here, because I need a schematic to fix it. And I have it right here." He tugged it from his pocket and held the wrinkled paper up. "That's all I needed. And now I can-"  
  
"Why couldn't Tom get it himself?" She took another step forward and this time Wily retreated a step. His amusement reared its head, burned into anger for the fact that he'd allowed himself to be driven back. "God knows he's done twice as much with those machines as you have. But you're gonna get half of the credit, maybe even most of it, just because of your damn last name, aren't you? No, you're not telling me something. And if you don't tell me what it is right now, I'm calling the police, and I'm-"  
  
Twelve minutes. The electric excitement coursed through him and pushed him forward. "Look, people are going to die tonight if I don't get out of here right now. Do you understand me? Every second you keep me here, these machines are...going rogue. Right on the far side of town. Killing women and children. Trapping the last men on the night shift in the mines. Do you want that? They're getting caught in the crossfire."  
  
"Crossfire." Emily's voice was dull, unimpressed.  
  
He waved his hand toward their television, the little box that looked like it was on its last legs. It didn't even have any rabbit ears. He let his instincts guide him. “Turn on the news if you don't believe me.”  
  
She was silent for a long few seconds. But she couldn't hide the way she narrowed her eyes, the way she looked like she was trying to figure out if maybe every word he was saying could be possible. "So if I let you take whatever that is and leave right now, nothing will happen? Nobody will die?"  
  
He seized that hesitation. He let it feed him. "These machines are strong, Emily. Powerful, just like Light and I made them. People are going to die. Some worthy. Some not. The question is whether they're going to die for the greater good or for something senseless. If you let me go, I-I can...I can put a stop to this. Stop it all before we lose those worthy people."  
  
She slowly furrowed her eyebrows. "...what have you done?"  
  
Those eyes. He opened his mouth again. "Something great. If I can see it through-" He bit his tongue. His hands were shaking. "...if I can stop these machines, put them under my control again..." Yes. Better. "...then I can help guide this city into a...a _utopia._ " He narrowed his eyes passionately, sweeping one of his arms out like a great actor on a stage. "This, _all of this,_ will be gone. Finished. Replaced with something beautiful. But I can't do it alone. I need every worthy person I can save on my side-"  
  
"People like Tom."  
  
He didn't know how he managed to keep from laughing, but somehow he did. "People...like you."  
  
She hadn't broken eye contact with him since the second she came into this room. When Emily finally spoke again, he could feel every cell in his body rushing just a little faster. "You don't know a thing about me."  
  
"Everything I need to know about you I learned in these past three minutes. You're strong. Passionate. Intense. Dedicated. Loyal. Everything that I need at my side."  
  
She slowly began to shake her head. "Tom says-"  
  
"Will you forget about Tom?" he snapped, cramming his schematic in his pocket as he took a few steps forward. The woman held her ground admirably. "When this is all over, he'll be nothing. _Nothing._ He doesn't have what you have, Emily. He's replaceable, down to his dusty old shoes. But you're _not._ Don't just let me go, Emily, come _with_ me. We could accomplish so much!"  
  
"You're blind. I wouldn't be any help to a man like you. I'm not bright. I'm not brilliant. I'm not-"  
  
"I'm brilliant enough for the both of us, but you? You have some...some spirit inside you that gives you more strength than I've ever seen before. Don't you see? We could make the most incredible things-"  
  
She shook her head. "You're not listening to me, Wily." And then she narrowed her eyes and stepped until she was just a few inches away from him, her voice shaking with fervor. "Even if you're right and even if we _could_ create these incredible things, I wouldn't go for it. I'd say 'forget it' and send it all to Hell, because there's no way I'd ever associate with a man like you."  
  
"...Emily-"  
  
"I see you. I've always seen you, even when all I had to go on was Tom's words. But in these past three minutes, do you know what else I've seen? Everything." She raked her eyes over him like red hot coals, even as his heart went cold, even as the realization set in. She knew something. "You're a selfish, manipulative, insane bastard, and I know exactly what you're planning. And guess what? I'm going straight to Tom, and I'm telling him everything I saw tonight. Everything I...” She gritted her teeth as she opened her coat, pawed through an inside pocket. Papers. She had _papers._ She ripped them out and jabbed them at him, a few objects spilling out of her pocket and onto the floor - her keys, some papers, something shiny and closed. “Everything I _stole._ Just like _you._ ” Legal paper and blueprints. Even from this distance, he recognized his handwriting. Recognized the machine with the single red eye, the enormous square telescreens. _She_ had the fucking... “I know what you're trying to do. And it's over. Your fake little charitable utopia is over before it even began, because Tom will put a stop to it in a second. A boy like you isn't fit to lick Thomas Light's boots."  
  
Silence. Just a long moment of silence where Wily saw his vision slowly turning red, felt tongues of flame flicking through his whole body, and let her every word echo through his brain. He licked his lips as he began to nod. "...I knew you'd say that." And then he lunged forward.  
  
He tangled his fingers in her blouse as he shoved her backward, listening to her stumbling and shrieking in surprise before he pressed his other hand against her mouth and suffocated any other sound before it began. It didn't matter that her arms lashed out, not when he could pin both between their chests, not when it took just a second for him to grab her hair and slam her head back against the wall. It gave him a moment, just a single moment of blurry eyes and head, but that was all he needed to spin her around and press her face into the wall.  
  
"Get _off_ of me!" she shouted, and Wily breathed out a laugh as he held her squirming body firmly against the wall with his shoulder and elbow, driving them carelessly into her neck and spine. Her screams were sweet. One more taste of fucking limitless power, heady enough to make his eyes roll back in his head for a moment of incandescence.  
  
"Please, scream away," he hissed. "You'll just be one of many." His fingers fumbled at his belt. "You think anybody will notice in a city like this?" His zipper went down. "Where screams are the lullaby of every baby at night?" She was softer than he thought, he realized, as he pulled the loose waistband of her pants down. "No, I gave you a chance. More than I've given anybody in my entire life. And you fucked it up, my dear. You fucked it up big time. So please." He touched his lips to the shell of her ear as he pressed his hips against hers. "Scream for me."  
  
They were bathed in red light. Every second, every sound, every grunt and movement was drowned in crimson from the machine that stood in front of the door. It watched. It never once looked away. It seemed to soak up everything like a movie, as if it was applying it to its memory core. At any moment, its master could give a command. Its master had total power over it. It would wait forever if it had to. But it didn't. Two minutes, one hundred and twenty seconds, was all it took before everything slowed into one final push, before the weeping screams sank into silent agony, before the machine stood a little taller as it recognized its master coming back to the present in a slow, steady rush.  
  
Wily held himself flush against this body, chest to back, until he'd caught his breath. "You know what's funny?" he asked with a quiet laugh. "I meant it. I meant it when I said I knew you'd say that." He shook his head, his nose brushing against tendrils of hair. "I've known all along that somebody like you could upset everything. But God, you could've made it so much better too, do you know that? You could've been the second face of the new world. That passion, that strength, all of that would've made us into something that never could've been stopped." And then he narrowed his eyes, his hand tightening where it secured those wrists. "But it's that damn sense of justice that held you back. And it's that bleeding heart of yours that'll end your life tonight."  
  
A slight movement backward, that's all it took, before the head in front of him began to turn. And for a moment the moon shone on the both of them. And the moonlight illuminated those blue eyes. And then, just then, just for that moment, they shone bright, icy, clearer than anything, perfect, incandescent, the eyes of the man he...no...no, these eyes were _navy,_ weren't they? Wily furrowed his eyebrows as the woman came into focus. And then he jerked back a step and she crumpled to the floor. She fell face-down, and there she stayed. Thank God for that. She was pathetic. He didn't want to take even one more look at those eyes of hers.  
  
Even under his heavy breathing, he could hear her, the way she sucked in deep and shaky gulps of air like oxygen was in short supply and she wanted to drink it all up for herself. There was a wetness to it. It made him curl his lip in disdain.  
  
"I pray to God you can't walk," he muttered. "It likes the runners. It'll torture them far longer."  
  
He watched how she clawed at the floor, slowly drawing her fingers into fists, and he tensed. But all she did was push herself into a strange little ball, like a turtle. He breathed out a sudden laugh in hopes that he'd get to see her twitch but he went ungratified.  
  
The movements were slow, so slow he barely even noticed them. But before he knew it, he realized she was turning her head. She was going to look at him. What the hell did she want that for? He furrowed his eyebrows as he drew back a step, straightened his spine, drew his hand back like a gun ready to fire, but that all stopped when she opened her eyes and stabbed him with those bright blue orbs.  
  
He couldn't breathe. He was suffocating.  
  
"Light always comes," she whispered, "whether you try to hide it or not."  
  
Her side was soft and squishy and caved easily to his pointy boots. But even as he lashed out, even as he ripped hair from her scalp as he dragged her close to his face with one firm jerk, she didn't scream again. She didn't even flinch. He sneered as he leaned in, nose-to-nose with her. "Then I'll blow the sun out of the fucking sky," he hissed.  
  
It would be so easy just to snap her neck right now. But he'd done enough. He'd done far _more_ than enough.  
  
He shoved her away and came to his feet, brushing the dust from his clothes as he did so. He zipped his fly. She lay there as he collected the blueprints that had fallen to the floor and shut and relocked the desk drawer. This time she was smart enough not to look at him.  
  
He turned and made his way to Light's window, glancing toward the machine as he did so. He touched the corner of his thumb to his neck, the nail digging in just enough to make his breathing hitch, before he drew it straight across his throat. As he slipped through the window he heard that metallic twinge, that soft creaking of its joints. When his feet clattered against the fire escape, the world fell silent again just in time for him to hear the sound of metal tearing through muscle and tendon.  
  
What would Light think, Wily wondered, when he realized? When he knew how easy it had been for Wily to take the only thing that mattered to Light out of his life? It would have been so much nicer, so much more elegant, for Light to be dismantled in a moment when he saw Emily at his side on the telescreens, when he heard her speak just as loudly and passionately as Wily would, but this...this was just as effective. It was just a shame that Wily would never get to see his reaction.  
  
He sucked a deep breath in, feeling his every muscle twitch and squirm in anticipation. He was high. He could do that all over again, especially when the very marrow in his bones was ringing with sensation. But no. No more desire. No more vulnerability. No more light.  
  
It was finished. Game over, Tom. Game over.  
  
  
~~  
  
  
She'd known.  
  
She'd known from the second she stepped into his office that it'd end this way.  
  
She hurt. She hurt in every way. Every muscle in her body was on fire. Things were dripping out of her, things that she didn't want to think about, staining her skirt and seeping into the floorboards, but it didn't matter, not anymore, not when she knew she was going to die.  
  
Two years ago, she might've run. She might've climbed to her feet and tried to throw herself out the window while she still had a chance, but now her instincts for self-preservation were gone. Tom had softened them, softened her. But she couldn't be angry at that. It didn't matter anyway. Wily would've found her again. He would have made her suffer far longer when he did. Her fists wouldn't have mattered when the twenty most powerful people in the city all supported him, and she'd never been very handy with a gun. No, fists had been her weapon, fists and knives...

Her knife.

She stared at where it had fallen to the floor when she'd taken out those fucking papers, calling Wily's bluff, never dreaming that he'd lash back out at her. But she should have, shouldn't she? She always should have known, should have expected...  
  
The metallic squeaking drew her eyes to the metal man in the corner, the one approaching her because God knew monsters didn't travel alone, the one she should've seen the second she set foot in the apartment instead of questioning, wondering, reasoning. God, it was terrifying. Cold ice crept through her as her heart pounded faster, so fast that the room swam before her eyes. It paused for a second before swiping her knife from the floor. Flipping it open. Examining the blade. And then storming right toward her.  
  
“Please,” she whispered, and she half-expected it to be like it was in the old movies, when the tin-can-for-a-head creature heard the beautiful heroine and paused, enchanted by something in her, let her live. But this was no movie, and she was no glamorous star, and that was why the metal man could so easily grab her by the front of her blouse and wrench her to her feet.  
  
The knife it had made it an adversary, kept that cold steely panic at bay and replaced it with a cool and level head. She'd been cut before. She knew how it felt. She knew how to shift her body to avoid the blade puncturing the more important organs. And what's more, she knew her own knife.  
  
Maybe she had a chance. Maybe she-  
  
Oh.  
  
Oh _God._  
  
As the blade nicked through her throat muscles, sawed her voice box clean in half, she stared straight into the metal man's red eye. The knife caught for a second right on the end of her voice box, and the creature cocked its head to the side, tugging at the weapon before it finally pulled it free in a spray of crimson all over its body and continued on the slicing job.  
  
She'd never done this. She'd been civilized. The one man she'd done in, the one who'd done exactly to her best friend what that bastard Wily'd done to her, she'd let him cry and curse to his end, but now that she opened her lips, as she tried to mouth her lover's name, all she heard was the hissing of air shooting through vocal cords made useless.  
  
The metal man held her by the collar. As she wrapped her hands helplessly around its steely wrist, as her eyes watered, as she wondered at the heat spreading down her front as the blood soaked into her blouse, the creature never once moved. Never swayed. Just stared into her eyes.  
  
It was a comfort, in a way, not to have to die alone, even if her only solace was her murderer.  
  
She'd heard stories of those who were beheaded as war criminals, how they had enough oxygen and blood stored in their brain to live for almost a minute after the deed was done, how one murdered queen had her head lifted from the guillotine's basket and turned to her secret betrayer so she would know as she died just who to curse in Hell. She wondered how long she had.  
  
She wondered at the pain that was fading from her muscles.  
  
She wondered if the metal man would hold her until the light faded from her eyes.  
  
She wondered if Tom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. That IS the end of the chapter.


End file.
